


rusty prince

by floresetcorvi



Series: oh saint jude (watch over them) [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Character Study, Drug Abuse, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Pre-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Slurs, Sort Of, and they're happy most of the times, but he's in love and is gonna take him forever to realise, it's not as dark as the tags make it seems, kavinsky is constipated, like the slowest god this will take forever, the dream pack are dorks and bffs because it's what they deserve, well happier than canon ig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 09:43:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17660384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floresetcorvi/pseuds/floresetcorvi
Summary: "do i not live? badly, i know, but i live." (sophocles, from 'electra')millburn, 2013.Joseph Kavinsky hates New Jersey, what it means, who he is to it, the memories that stain it. "Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it," the Bible says, and Kavinsky is ready to drive his little white Mitsubishi Evo down the path to damnation.orwho kavinsky was before the kavinsky he became.





	1. disclaimer

**Author's Note:**

> this is my take on who kavinsky was before the dream thieves. oh saint jude (watch over them) is a five works series that will follow kavinsky and the pack for three years before the dream thieves begin. i tagged rusty prince with so many things just so you can know what you're signing up for, but none of it happens in this first part (except idk recreational drug use and underage drinking). 
> 
> please read this disclaimer chapter before going to the fic itself

I want to start off saying that this fic isn't and has never been an attempt at forgiving Kavinsky for who he was in _The Dream Thieves._ It's not an attempt at picturing him as a victim, someone who's never had a choice. He had choices and he kept choosing to be a bad person.

 _oh st. jude (watch over them)_ is not an attempt to redeem Kavinsky of his mistakes. This is merely my way of expressing who I felt Joseph Kavinsky was while reading _The Dream Thieves_ : a frightened, angry boy who made all the wrong choices and didn’t care enough to feel sorry about them. This is about the boy before that, about the paths he took that led him to _The Dream Thieves_ , about how he could be something else, but didn’t want to.

No tragic backstory, no trauma will ever excuse an abusive behaviour; it will never excuse the damage an abusive person did to someone else. Joseph Kavinsky was an abuser who stalked and harassed Ronan, and kidnapped his brother for attention. Kavinsky _is_ problematic and abusive. He is not a lost puppy, or someone who’s been forced on the life he led. It was his choice.

I don't see Kavinsky as someone who's innocent. He _is_ a bad person, but I don't believe he's an unforgivable devil as Maggie tries to picture him.

 _oh st. jude (watch over them)_ is about a fifteen(ish)-years-old Joseph Kavinsky who was more vulnerable than the Kavinsky we got to know in _The Dream Thieves_ , who was broken and mended himself in the wrong ways. This work is merely my way of expressing my headcanons and trying to connect them to the canon, even though I changed the ending.

This fic is about the whole pack, though it is more focused on Kavinsky. While writing it, I grew attached to all of them and decided to make them main characters, too.

That being said, I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it, and that your heart shatters and flutters just like mine did while creating this work. Joseph Kavinsky is very problematic, I will never deny this, but this character is really important to me, so I hope I did him justice. While reading _The Dream Thieves,_ I had countless headcanons for him and creating a backstory for Joseph Kavinsky was always something I wanted to do, so here I am.

P.S.: Yes, I know Ronan saw Jiang in Aglionby halls in _The Raven King_ , therefore, he must be a boy. But I’m ignoring it and keeping my headcanon that both Jiang and Swan are girls because I just love the idea. And because I pictured it like this before reading TRK, so yeah.

P.S².: I’m placing the story of TRC in the year of 2016 because, you know, I’m too lazy to actually do some research. Therefore, OSJ(WOT) starts by April, 2013.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "you are every mother's cautionary tale."
> 
> \- BAR, Amrit. '[Shitty Horoscopes Book V: Love Sells](http://www.amritbrarillustration.com/book-v)'

Joseph Kavinsky hates April 24th as well as he hates December 25th or Easter or any other religious holiday because they mean church, and he really despises churches. But he has a special despise for April 24th, being it a date no one ever gives a damn about: it’s St. Mark’s Eve and it’s ridiculous. Also, it means he needs to go to the Feast of St. Mark tomorrow, and he’s already dreading it.

“Why the fuck do I need to go to this?”

“Mind your language, Joseph,” Monika Kavinsky snaps and he sighs. “Fix your hair.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” he replies even though he knows there’s a lot to fix because he made sure of it just to piss his mother off. If he has to go to such a shitty event, he might as well have some fun with it, and annoying Monika is one of his favourite hobbies.

Kavinsky glances at his mother.

Monika always puts effort in looking good when she goes to church. She _washed_ and _brushed_ her hair, tying it in some fancy hairdo her son really doesn't care about. She is even wearing jewellery and make up and smelling of expensive perfume. Her dress is far too nice to be worn for church, they both know it.

She’s a world away from the numb mess of a woman he calls mother every other day of his life.

He doesn’t want to go, and yet there he is, climbing inside his Mitsubishi Evo and starting the engine to drive both him and his mother to the church between Millburn and South Orange.

When he thinks down to it, St. Mark’s Eve is more about tradition than it is about faith. A few generations earlier, it held some meaning, being some kind of truce, of white flag, between the Kavinskys and the Prokopenkos. But then Kavinsky’s great-grandmother shot a Prokopenko dead over the theft of an artifact and Hell broke loose between the families. What had once been a healthy kind of rivalry, sport-ish, even, turned into a war.

St. Mark’s Eve, a few generations earlier, was about putting their differences aside and fraternising, maybe even forming alliances or something like that, discussing business, pretending to be a big, loving family. It was always held in that same church, the one built with fundings from both families, right on the border of the two neighbourhoods: Millburn for the Kavinskys and South Orange for the Prokopenkos.

St. Mark’s Eve, now, is about rubbing salt on the wound. There’s no truce to be held, no white flag to be hoisted. It’s all about showing off, which is the reason behind his mother’s beautiful dress. It’s about making sure the other family sees them being successful with business.

It’s about power.

The Feast of St. Mark is even worse because they really make an attempt of sitting together at the same table and of pretending to be civil to each other, which always goes to shit because someone starts some drama, and sooner much more than later, there are threats and curses and guns being waved in the air.

It’s a shitshow, really, and Kavinsky hates it.

He has better uses of his time.

That church, that has once meant an alliance, is now just a ruin, a mere trace of what those families used to be before the theft and the murder that soon followed it. He doesn’t blame the Prokopenkos for holding a grudge until today; he doesn’t blame his family for being petty, either. He does blame, however, his mother for forcing him to wear a suit and come to church for something he couldn’t care less about if someone paid him to. 

As he’s parking his Mitsubishi in the spacious parking lot (it had been built to hold dozens of cars, after all), he can see that many people are already there. Cars from both families are scattered around, nothing too remarkable about it, really. Except for one very specific car and he smirks when he sees it.

It’s Evgeni Prokopenko’s red Golf.

Evgeni Prokopenko is one of the few fun things about St. Mark’s celebrations because he, too, hates all of that bullshit, and they’re often found laughing about it when their families start to fight. They simply go to the parking lot and mock them.

The food at the Feast is another fun thing, although neither family ever eats what the other made. It’s only fair after a Prokopenko did try to poison a Kavinsky a few years after The Murder. Or maybe his grandfather’s brother was just allergic to something, but they’re still very convinced it had been intentional.

Again, it’s ridiculous.

He parks the car and they get out of it.

The church is already packed. He can see aunts and uncles, many cousins whose names he doesn’t remember, even his grandparents came from Bulgaria, to where they retired a decade ago, because St. Mark’s Eve is tradition. It’s also bullshit, but he doesn’t say anything as he follows his mother inside, a very fake smile on his face.

From across the room, there are some of the Prokopenkos. The main branch of the family is there, Nikoleta and Ivan with his many children. If they haven’t made any new tiny Prokopenkos, there are two of their offspring missing, the older ones, Dimitar and Gergana. From across the room, he can see Evgeni Prokopenko and he knows he’s seen, too.

He smirks before following his mother to greet some of his many relatives.

What a party.

 

After countless minutes, when his toes are already being crushed inside his shoes, Monika finally waves him off, telling him to take a seat wherever he wished, and that’s why he sits on a pew near the pulpit, spreading his arm across the headrest and propping his feet on the row in front of his.

He looks at the ceramic Jesus hanging from the cross, which is hanging from the wall, and rolls his eyes.

St. Mark’s Eve _is_ ridiculous.

He cranes his neck to look over at where the Prokopenkos are. The two older children of Ivan and Nikoleta arrived while he was busy saying hello and giving out hugs. Enough physical contact for the rest of his life, he’s sure of it. It’s funny how each family is at a different end of the church when they should be fraternising or something.

Kavinsky will never understand why they keep that tradition if it doesn’t mean anything, anymore. The last time he asked his mother that, Monika dismissed him, telling him ‘it’s how things work. Now go fix your tie, Joseph’.

On the bright side, his father isn’t there. Being as busy with his businesses in the world of smuggling magical artifacts as he is, Andrei Kavinsky doesn’t really have the time for traditions. It’s a good thing, actually. It’s always a good thing that his father always spends too much time away from home, caring only about business and not about his wife and son, coming back only once in every two months. Three, if he’s lucky.

He doesn’t know where his father gets the things he sells, but he doesn’t truly care as long as it means being far away from him.

He’s running a hand through his hair and sinking deeper into his seat, his attention back to the ceramic Jesus, when he notices someone approaching. He cranes his neck just enough to see Evgeni Prokopenko. He sits down, way more collected than Kavinsky. “Hey,” he greets in a small voice.

“Hey,” he says back as he allows his head to fall back, deciding to stare at the ceiling instead, studying the fresco of naked babies with wings, orchards, clouds and things like that. “Your mom’s gonna beat your ass if she sees you here.”

“Nah,” Evgeni says and looks up as well. “She would never hit me.”

Kavinsky hums. Evgeni is probably the favourite son of Nikoleta, although maybe Ivan has other preferences. Evgeni told him something along those lines at some other St. Mark’s celebration, he’s sure of it. It didn’t strike him as relevant back then. It doesn’t strike him as relevant now.

“How’s the party going for you?” he asks in an attempt of small talk because, again, Evgeni is the only remotely interesting thing about this.

“Shitty,” he answers and Kavinsky chuckles. “How about you?”

“Same. It’s just so,” he waves his hand, “pointless.”

“Tell me about it,” he scoffs. “They’re not even _talking_ to each other.”

And Kavinsky thinks it’s kind of ironic, the children of the main branch of the families sitting together, in the middle of the church, while everyone else is too busy sitting at opposite ends. It’s even more ironic when he remembers that the pulpit was built right on the border between the neighbourhoods.

He sees Ivan Prokopenko eyeing him and he can’t help but send him a shit-eating grin. “I think your father is kinda hating that you’re talking to me,” he announces as he holds eye contact until Ivan turns his attention to the little girl jumping around him.

Evgeni looks over his shoulder and shrugs. “He’s always kinda hating me for something. So why bother?”

And that’s something Joseph Kavinsky can relate to, even though he doubts Ivan hates his son as much as Andrei does. He thinks no one will ever top his father’s level of contempt for their own child, to be honest.

He looks at Jesus and rolls his eyes.

Evgeni chuckles beside him.

“Joseph!” he hears his mother calling and sinks even further into his seat as if the pew could make him invisible just so he doesn’t need to deal with her. Sadly, it can’t and Monika Kavinsky is walking towards them, her cheeks slightly flushed—maybe out of anger or maybe out of alcohol, he doesn’t really know. “Come here. Now.”

“You told me I could sit wherever I wanted,” he shrugs. 

“ _Now_ ,” she repeats and her voice is as sharp as always. She glares at Evgeni, who seems to withdraw a bit. Coward. It only makes Kavinsky more adamant about not moving an inch. He looks into her blue eyes, the same he looks into whenever he looks in the mirror. “ _Joseph_.”

She ushers him like she did when he was little and she’d find him doing something wrong. Maybe he is doing something wrong by talking to Evgeni Prokopenko, but it just doesn't matter. He's bored.

“You’re the one who told me to come here, you know,” he says as he sits upright as if it’d make him somewhat intimidating to his own mother.

“Joseph, stop being spoiled and come here. Now.”

“You’re also the one who raised me, so if I’m spoiled, it’s on you.” She presses her lips into a line. She does that when she’s angry. Monika hates being challenged, and her son is very happy by challenging her in front of the whole church.

Her eyes are stone cold and, yet, they burn through his skin. But he had practiced the art of being a little shit throughout the years, and Kavinsky likes to think he has quite mastered it. Therefore, he crosses his arms.

Monika mouths a threat. He arches his brow and lets his hand slide from his arm to Evgeni’s knee. He can feel the boy shrinking beside him. He sees the anger flaring up her eyes, flushing her cheeks even more. He also sees the moment she gives up, breathing deep through her mouth and out of her nose, and her shoulders drop. “You’re insufferable,” she says before going back to wherever she came from.

He can feel the laughter of pride bubbling in his stomach. He feels a smile melting into his lips. He takes his hand from Evgeni’s knees and sinks back into the pew. He glances upwards to find Prokopenko with a tiny smile of his own.

“What was that for, dude?” he asks.

Kavinsky shrugs. “Not in the mood for walking around to greet any more relatives,” he says because he doesn’t want to admit he loves to piss off his mother just to get a reaction from her. He barely admits it to himself, if he’s being honest, which he isn’t. Honesty is not his strongest trait, he’s aware of it.

“Fair enough,” and Evgeni slumps into the pew as well. They both look at Jesus. “Poor guy,” he remarks and Kavinsky can’t help but laugh loudly at that because, well, poor guy indeed.

It draws attention from both families, and if someone has managed to overlook the two sitting together, they can’t do that any longer. Kavinsky’s laughter is too loud and it draws annoyed and confused and angry looks towards the two teenage boys laughing because of a ceramic piece of Jesus on the cross.

“Genko,” someone calls from behind them. It’s Evgeni’s older sister, Gergana, tapping his shoulder and nodding towards their parents. “C’mon,” is all she says and Kavinsky clenches his jaw because he knows that Evgeni will go with her. He’s too much of a good son to pull a scene like Kavinsky had just minutes earlier.

But much to his surprise, Evgeni shakes his head. “I’ll go later,” he says, which is a much more polite version of Kavinsky’s scene.

Gergana stays there for a few seconds, hovering above them long enough for it to get awkward. And the thing about those situations is that it grows worse the longer she takes to reply. “Mom’s calling you now, Genko.”

Evgeni looks over at Nikoleta, who’s carrying an asleep child. Then, he looks back at his sister. “Is she?”

“Don’t make this hard,” Gergana warns and Evgeni closes his eyes. Her eyes dart quickly at Kavinsky before returning to her brother. “C’mon.”

Evgeni rolls his head to the left so he’s facing Kavinsky and gives him an apologetic smile. Kavinsky only scoffs as he sees him following his sister back to the table his family’s sitting at.

Without the other boy’s company, he can only do so much to keep himself entertained. He plays random arcade games on his phone, even beating some of his previous highest scores. Then, he thinks about listening to music only to find out his earbuds are back at his house. So he goes back to playing arcade games until his phone dies.

Then, he sighs and looks at the ceramic Jesus. He wonders if Jesus would really have a six pack. He shakes his head and goes outside, the warm spring air welcoming him. It was around half past midnight when his phone kissed him goodbye a few minutes ago. It’s really impressive how the church is still crowded.

If he was a child, Kavinsky thinks, he could tell his mother he’s tired and they’d go back to their house. But he can’t use that excuse anymore; hasn’t been able to for a while now.

Kavinsky walks to his Mitsubishi, yanks the door open and sits on the driver’s seat, allowing his body to flop backwards, his legs dangling from the seat. Lying like that is pretty uncomfortable, having the gear poking his back, but he doesn’t care yet.

That's when he hears feet treading on the pebbles. He sighs. He wishes he was lucky enough for it to be his mother, announcing that they'll go home.

Not that he has plenty of things to do at his house. He hasn’t. And he can already feel the tiredness creeping into his bones and under his skin, but sleeping is never, ever, a good idea. Kavinsky wishes it were because it feels good to drift away from awareness and magically skip a few hours. He wishes he could do it right now, just lie on the backseat and sleep until Monika comes back.

But he can't and Evgeni is gazing at him from where his stands by the open door. “Oh, it's you,” Kavinsky says, not bothering to look up. “It's been so long, man,” he jokes. “How did you manage to escape the claws of your parents’ despise for a Kavinsky?”

Evgeni laughs and shakes his head, nudging some pebbles with his foot. “It was pretty hard, I gotta admit,” he jokes along. “Sharp claws and all of that. My dad’s disapproval was really the hardest part,” Evgeni leans on the Mitsubishi’s open door and sighs. “Man, St. Mark’s Eve really sucks.”

“Did you only find that out now?” Kavinsky asks, lifting his head just to glance at the other boy.

“It was nicer when I was younger.”

“Breaking news, Genko,” he throws his hands up in an exaggerated shrug. “Everything gets worse the older you get, man.”

“That’s not true,” Evgeni replies, but doesn’t bother to elaborate on that, so silence wraps around them, being the crickets their only source of white noise. It’s quite annoying, Kavinsky has to admit.

“Christmas? It’s ruined, you don’t get half as many gifts. Easter? No point because, boo-hoo, the bunny is fake. No more tooth fairy, either,” he can go on, listing other things that lose its magic throughout life. He can make it darker, too, but that’s too much personal information to throw around.

“I miss the tooth fairy.”

“It was just your parents, dude,” he notes as he sits up. “You can still ask them for pennies, you know. Though it’d be fucking creepy if you had to give up a tooth for it.”

Evgeni laughs. “I don’t think they’d demand that.”

From where they are, they can see the silhouettes of those inside. It's been hours and the church is as packed as it was when he arrived. Kavinsky watches the shadows through the window as they chatter and move around. It's somewhat eerie, even; blurry, dark stains against the yellow light.

Then, he hears the sound of glass shattering and indistinct shouts. _It was about fucking time,_ he thinks as he laughs.

He can see the silhouettes moving faster now. He can see raised fists and pointing fingers. He can hear offenses and curses being yelled both in Bulgarian and in English.

He laughs harder and Prokopenko joins him.

He looks at the clock on the car's dash. 01:21 AM. This is probably a record. “I don't think they ever managed to behave for such a long time,” Evgeni comments as he follows Kavinsky's gaze to the clock.

“Who do you think started it?” he asks, but doesn't have a guess himself. It could've been anyone, really. It was just glass shattering and the voice who first shouted isn't familiar enough for him to pick it out from the cacophony happening inside.

“The first shouting I heard was my cousin's, Yulian. Maybe it was your side?” he offers and Kavinsky shrugs. It could be.

There's more shouting and aggressive gesturing. “Man, this is a joke,” he says, and there’s the sound of another glass shattering.

“What do you think the fight is about?”

“Wanna find out?” Kavinsky asks back, his brow quirked upwards.

They walk inside, and the noise is a lot louder from there. _What the fuck,_ he wonders as the voices grow. What sounded like a normal volume conversation becomes deafening roars as they approach.

“Shit!” he says, watching as his relatives shout, fists in the air. Somewhere, he hears someone cursing in Bulgarian and he laughs. "What the fuck is going on?” he asks Evgeni, who's looking around as confused as he is.

Kavinsky scans the place, looking for his mother. Monika is asleep in the back of the room, probably passed out because of drinking. “Shit,” he mutters through gritted teeth as he walks towards her. Getting to Monika is a bit harder than he anticipated, having to elbow his way through a horde of angry Kavinskys. “Hey,” he calls her, but she doesn't move. “Hey!” he calls louder, but nothing. “How motherly,” he groans as he tries to lift her up.

Monika isn't exactly heavy. She's just tall while her son’s height is below 168cm. “Oh, c’mon,” he walks to Evgeni, who's still at the door, looking half delighted and half scared. “Hey, Genko,” he calls. “A little help?” and points at Monika. Evgeni nods and as he starts to make it towards him, a voice cuts through.

“Evgeni!” it shouts. It's his brother, Dimitar. “Don't you dare to take another step!” Kavinsky rolls his eyes. Well, he'll have to find a way to get his drunk mother into his car alone. Whatever reason is behind Dimitar’s anger, it holds Evgeni back.

He places his hand under his mother's armpit and sighs. “Hey,” he calls again, giving her body a little shake. “Oh fucking God,” he groans when she doesn't move an inch. “What a great mother,” he rolls his eyes. But since Monika is too tall while her son is too short, it means he can't get very far with the whole carrying thing, which leads him to ask for help of an uncle, which pisses him off even more.

But they manage to make it to his car. They put her asleep body lying on the backseat and Kavinsky groans again once his uncle is gone. _What a fucking amazing mother,_ he curses as he starts the engine.

And he drives. Driving takes his mind from his shitty mother for a while. It also distracts him from the fact that he hates his home, if anyone can ever call the Kavinsky Manor a home.

It's too white, too empty, too silent for his liking. His steps echo and every sound is a thousand times louder than they should be. Driving back there always feels like deliberately driving to Hell; not the standard, burning inferno kind of Hell—more of a freezing, overly-white kind.

Kavinsky would rather the burning inferno version.

But driving takes his mind off it for a while because driving is Joseph Kavinsky’s way of feeling in control. If he steps down the clutch or the accelerator or the brakes, it obeys him—it does whatever he tells it to do. It’s some sort of power that is only granted to him when behind the wheel. While driving, he’s a king, ruling the streets of Millburn, and it feels awesome.

The light turns green. A foot letting go of the clutch, another down the accelerator: he takes off.

A king crowned by the smokes of his tires.

However, his prideful moment behind the wheel ends too soon and he’s pulling over the driveway to his house, his mother lightly snoring in the backseat. He stops the car none too gently, trying to see if it will wake her up.

It doesn't and Kavinsky groans, slamming the door.

He pokes her shin. “Wake up,” he calls, but Monika only mumbles and turns around. “I can’t carry you inside,” he says, and again it does nothing to stir her from sleep. “I’ll leave in you the car,” he warns. Nothing. “Fucking hell.” He loosens his tie and rests his back against the car. “Why the fuck would you even get wasted at a _church_ party?” he asks her as he looks up.

Kavinsky takes his mother’s shoes off and grabs her purse, taking those inside first. With dropped shoulders, he goes to face his fate of having to drag her inside, which would probably result in her yelling at him by the morning, but it’s that or leaving her to sleep in the car. Kavinsky doesn’t know which one has the worst aftermath.

So he holds her, trying to prop her against him, her arm around his neck. She smells of alcohol. God, why did she have to be so tall? With each step, he’s aware of her feet dragging against cement and that it must be bruising them. _That’s what you get for getting wasted and wearing heels,_ he thinks.

Somehow, he manages to get her to the living room, where he drops her onto the couch. Monika is still asleep. Her feet are slightly bruised and Kavinsky looks away. It’s not his fault he has a junkie for a mother. He locks his car and the door behind him before going to his bedroom.

2:12 says the clock by his side table. He has classes in a few hours and he already knows he’ll be feeling like shit. Damned be whoever decided to celebrate the truce between the families in such a random date. He flops onto his bed without bothering to take off anything but his shoes and he falls asleep like that, hoping for the best.

 

Once he realises what’s happening, he curses himself, his brain, God, the universe and the stars, and literally anything that has ever had whatever drop of fault in his dreaming abilities. He hates it; he doesn’t want it. It’s a nightmare, and Kavinsky truly doesn’t need another one aside from his life.

Yet, there he is, standing in those woods, wishing for a peaceful sleep, but, apparently, he can’t have that. After so many years trying to live with his—power? Magic? Ability? Curse? How can he even call it?—, he learned that it’s best to avoid doing anything. It’s already too dangerous to only stand there.

After years, Kavinsky has stopped trying to make sense of it; where did it come from, how does it work, how can he make it stop—those are all useless questions because he has no way of answering them. He doesn’t even know if it always existed, or if it only appeared when he was seven, because that’s where his first memory of taking something out of his dreams is.

He remembers it very well, even after eight years. He remembers waking up and recognising the silhouette outlined by the moonlight, hovering above his bed. He remembers how it looked like his father, except that it wasn’t quite human, with its fangs and claws. He remembers wailing and screaming in despair until Andrei showed up at his doorstep and Kavinsky froze, not sure if he should be more scared of his father or the night horror.

He remembers that the nightmare jumped over him, scratching him. He remembers the gunshots and his father glaring at him. Andrei raised his hand, but Monika rushed through the door and held her son. _It’s over, it’s okay,_ she shushed him, rocking his body back and forth.

It’s also the last time he remembers being held by his mother.

As he stands in those woods he’s known for years, he sighs. He hates being able to dream things into reality because said things are often night horrors. Aside from his sunglasses, a couple of recreative pills and an useless phone he keeps in his closet, he never dreamt anything that didn’t intend to kill him.

Then, he hears it; the trees speaking. _Fur, fur, fur,_ they hiss in a language he doesn’t know, which he thinks it’s ridiculous because shouldn’t he be able to understand his own dreams? The trees always hiss; they’ve been doing that since he can remember.

It’s maddening, whispers coming from everywhere, as omnipresent as the breeze on a summer afternoon. _Fur, fur, fur, fur._ He has tried to cover his ears once, but it has been useless. The whispers simply walk through his flesh, reaching his ears nonetheless. _Fur, fur, fur,_ they sing and he wants to scream.

He sits down by a tree because, hey, what is there to do? In a place where the line between what you think and what happens is as thin as paper, it’s better to think of nothing at all. He sits and toys with a blade of grass in hope to wake up soon.

 _Fur, fur, fur._ The trees whisper to him, but then, there’s another sound, just a bit louder than the hisses. _“Auxilium,”_ he hears and turns his head, trying to find the source of that voice, but to no avail. _“Auxilium,”_ the voice says again and it sounds like a prayer.

“What the fuck?” he muses out loud as he gets on his feet. He glances over a tree to find it leaking some kind of black goo. “What the fuck?” he asks again, taking a step back.

 _“Auxilium,”_ it sounds like a child, but everywhere he looks at, all he sees are trees and more trees. Fucking woods. Kavinsky asks himself why he’s so desperate to find something that can easily be a nightmare. _“Obsecro te,”_ it says and Kavinsky can’t understand a word.

 _Fur, fur, fur,_ say the trees. The child screams. _“Obsecro te, adiuva me,”_ but he can’t understand and not only because of the language barrier, but also because the shrieks are so loud he can’t do anything but cover his ears.

 _Fur, fur, fur._ “Shut up!” he shouts at the trees and, for a brief while, everything’s silent. Then, the trees start to disappear, one by one, fading into oblivion right before his eyes until the place becomes a field and he’s alone with the child.

It’s himself. It’s him with six years old. The kid has tears streaming down his face that don't look like they're stopping anytime soon. The fear in those blue orbs is so raw Kavinsky has an urge to look away or to scream at the child, he doesn’t know for sure. He just knows that it’s unsettling and he hates it.

 _“Adiuva me,”_ the kid pleads, the tears almost unbearable, his words barely distinctable because of his runny nose and choked voice. That, and because he’s speaking another language.

“Well, kid,” he starts, “you better learn English or Bulgarian because I can’t understand shit you’re saying,” he thinks of a cigarette because it feels like what he should have in stressful situations when he needs something to hold on to. And the dream gives it to him, turning a blade of grass into paper and then into a cigarette.

He picks it up and lights it with a thought because it’s all it takes in a place like this. Smoking in his dreams feels easier than what he thinks smoking when awake feels like.

The boy looks at him, his eyes still afraid and teary. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and stares. Kavinsky shifts under the child’s look. It’s unsettling and he wants to wake up. The kid stretches his hand and makes grabby fingers towards the cigarette and Kavinsky laughs. “Grow up first,” he says as he takes a drag and blows the smoke towards the clear sky.

They stare at each other and Kavinsky only wants to wake up because everything about looking at his younger self is uncomfortable—the terrified gaze, the soft skin free of scars, the tooth he lost because of his father and not because it was time to lose it, the unavoidable thoughts of ‘I know what’s going to happen to you and it ain’t pretty’.

It’s uncomfortable because he _knows_ his younger self was stupid enough to be hopeful, to think there’s more to life than his private Hell of a life. As he grew up, Kavinsky realised there’s nothing else to it. Maybe getting drunk, maybe hooking up, but nothing truly worth living for. At the end of the day, life still sucks.

Seeing his younger self makes him angry at himself, for being foolish, and it also makes him miserable because life sucked a bit less back at that time.

“The fuck you want?” he nods towards the child who only stares at him, saying nothing. “What were you whining about before, anyway?” but again, only silence answers him and he rolls his eyes, unable to keep his annoyance from his body language. The kid makes grabby hands towards the cigarette once more. “C’mon, I already said you won’t smoke any shit,” and he doesn’t know why he cares.

It’s a dream. It’s not a real child. There’s no real problem because everything will be gone as soon as he recovers his consciousness, so he gives the kid his cigarette. He twiddles with it before shrugging and swallowing it whole. “What the _fuck?"_ Kavinsky can’t help but ask as he takes a step back. “The fuck you did that for, dude?”

But the child only giggles. He apparently forgot why he was screaming just moments ago because he sits down and looks up. The trees are still gone and the sky is somewhat clear and this dream is oddly peaceful.

He makes another cigarette of a blade of grass and lights it. “This one’s mine,” he says after taking a drag and the child only hugs his knees. It’s painful to look at himself. It’s not like looking at a mirror and hating what he sees; it’s more like watching the video of a tragedy knowing there’s nothing he can do to change what happened.

When he thinks about what’s going on, he thinks that that must not be how dreaming works. Most people only dream random stuff piled up together, a huddle of memories mixed with weird shit. But his dreams are different. They’re simple and somewhat coherent. He’s simply sitting at a glade with his six-years-old self.

Maybe when dreaming was some form of magic, you dream differently. Maybe that’s bullshit, Kavinsky doesn’t know, but he’s thankful for not having to deal with anything more complicated than a child who screams in another language and eats cigarettes.

 _“Adiuva me,”_ the child cries again. “Please,” he croaks out, struggling around the syllables.

“Please what? I didn’t quite grasp the another part,” he takes a drag and looks at the kid, who started crying again, and he groans. “Oh c’mon. What’re you whining for anyway?”

Then, Kavinsky looks behind the child. Far behind them, it’s his father, but not quite human. It’s Andrei but quite monstrous, and maybe that’s just how he is, but in dreams, it’s terrifying. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “C’mere,” he stretches out his hand and grabs the kid’s wrist, pulling him up.

Even though they’re meters away, he sees the smile creeping to his father’s lips and it’s terrifying.

That’s where his dream loses connection with what’s _plausible._  He’s too terrified to keep the dream in touch with reality and it goes astray. His hands are shaking, his fingers barely gripping around the kid’s wrist, and the sky burns in orange before turning grey.

The ground cracks and Kavinsky can’t help but pull the child closer to him. Then, there’s a river of cognac running down the crack. He looks up in time to see small orange dots in the sky. Then, he realises it’s rain. Then, he realises it’s raining fire irons, their tips burning bright. _“Shit!”_ he exclaims before picking up the seven-years-old Kavinsky and running, far from his father.

He’s made a cigarette out of a blade of grass, so what else can he do in a place like this? It’s _his_ dream, after all. _Give me cover,_ he asks, to which the wind answers with whispers. _Fur, fur, fur,_ it says. “Oh for fucks sake,” he groans as he runs, covering the child’s head with his hand, wondering why he cares.

 _Give me somewhere to hide,_ he tries again. _Now,_ he adds.

What happens if he dies in his dream?

Somehow, the trees start to reappear right when a fire iron pierces the dirt just centimeters away from his feet. They start to fade back into existence, one by one, materialising out of thin air. Luckily, he manages not to be hit by any of the fire irons. With his back resting against a tree trunk, he sighs.

It’s fine, it is.

He’s about to let tiny Kavinsky go back to the floor when he hears a laughter. It’s Andrei’s. Evil, maniac, hollow, disturbing. It impossibly echoes through the woods, reaching them and freezing Kavinsky’s blood.

 _Now,_ he thinks, _would be a fucking great time to wake up._

But he doesn’t.

 _Give me something,_ he pleads the trees without truly knowing what he’s asking for. _Anything._ And, surprisingly, they listen to him. He can hear his father’s step and they sound just like when Andrei’s walking to his bedroom, even though the ground here is too soft to make any sound. A branch falls at his feet and it changes its shape, curling around itself, shrinking in some places, stretching in some others. The branch changes its shape until it becomes a 9mm pistol.

Kavinsky picks it up and put the kid on the ground. “Can you run?” he asks him, and the kid nods. “Okay. Then stay close to me.”

And he waits. He waits to Andrei to show up. He listens intently to the sound of footsteps approaching, sounding too much like feet against cold marble to his own liking, but he waits, too aware of everything. Kavinsky is aware of the kid’s hands against his calf, of the trees’ whispers, of his father looming presence.

God, he only wants to wake up.

He holds the gun as if he has any idea of how to shoot, but it’s a dream, anyway. Maybe it’ll cut him some slack, even though he doubts it. But he holds it anyway, pointing at where he vaguely remembers Andrei standing.

He holds the gun and it’s so heavy. He wants to wake up, to be safe, to breathe again, but the scorching feeling of the kid’s hand on his calf makes him feel guilty about leaving him there with Andrei.

It’s just a dream, he tells himself. It’s not real. This kid is just an illusion, a product of his own head, but it’s still hard to leave him with his father because he knows what can happen. It has happened to him. He knows that he can’t do shit for that kid, that he can’t save him. He knows that trying to save him won’t change a thing he’s gone through, but it still stings.

It doesn’t change in the slightest the urge Kavinsky feels to protect that kid, and he hates it, honestly. He deems it pathetic, but his fingers are still around the gun, aiming it at where Andrei might be.

And he waits, the pistol weighing down on his hand, pulling it downwards with each passing second. It’s hard to remain conscious, he notes, which is usually a sign that he’s waking up soon, but he can’t. Not yet, at least, because he doesn’t want to leave that child with some nightmare version of his father. _There’s nothing you can do for him,_ he tells himself because it’s true, so standing there is just stupidity and he should simply run without looking back. And even though he knows these things, he can’t bring himself to move.

But he doesn’t want to face that nightmare, either.

He just wants to wake up at the same time that he doesn’t, and it’s exhausting, really. “Fuck,” he curses and his voice echoes, ricocheting against the tree trunks even though it shouldn’t be possible. But it is and the trees whisper and hiss and Kavinsky wants to scream.

However, his consciousness is wearing thin and it’s getting hard to grasp his surrounding with every passing minute. The trees start to flicker before his eyes and he's not even sure if the kid is still there because everything is dizzy and he’s spacing out until everything’s dark.

Kavinsky wakes up.

There’s a gun in his hand.

A smile creeps to his lips and he laughs.

He looks over his bedside table and sees the time. 9:47 AM. Shit. He’s late for school.

Not that he cares enough about it. Not that he could bring himself to care when he’s just dreamt a wholeass gun into reality. He’s shaped it out of nothing and it’s perfect. For the first time in his life, dreaming sounds fucking great and he’s ecstatic about it.

A gun. An entire weapon made out of _thoughts._

It’s ridiculously impossible, dangerously beautiful, and he’s drunk in pride as he laughs, admiring his work.

It all lasts about a few minutes before Monika is swinging his door open, her eyes widening as she sees the golden pistol. “Where did you get that?” she asks, already snatching it from his hands. He tries to protest, but she lifts her finger. “Where did you get this, Joseph?”

“In my dreams,” he says, mockingly, and the expression of horror in her face is too subtle for him to notice. If only he was paying attention, he could’ve seen how her lips slightly parted before being pressed into a line again; he could’ve seen how her brows got an inch closer to each other and how her eyes fell.

“You’re late for school,” she says after a while.

“I’m not going,” he replies, flopping back on his bed.

“Yes, you are, Joseph,” and there’s no arguing with that because Monika Kavinsky is a shitty mother in many aspects, but she’s adamant about only one thing, and it’s her son’s education. It means a lot to her. “Go get ready,” she says and strides out of his bedroom, taking his gun with her.

 

It’s thanks to his mother that Joseph Kavinsky is found sitting at a desk, doodling about on his notebook. Not that it’s very artistic or deep. As a matter of fact, he’s considering grabbing his permanent marker and drawing dicks on the arm of the kid who’s asleep behind him.

He does so just because he can and because he’s bored. After he's finishing the fifth dick, the teacher clears her throat. “Mr. Kavinsky,” she calls. She's a decent person, he can acknowledge that to himself. She's also trying to see potential in him and it's annoying. “What's the result?” she asks.

Right. Physics. He's still at school. He turns around on his seat and gives her his best shit-eating grin, quite similar to the one he gave Ivan Prokopenko the night before. “Oh yeah,” he starts and he can already see the regret on her face as her shoulders drop. “X equals I don't give a shit.”

The class giggles. The teacher sighs. “You and Mr. Skovron,” she calls. “You two to the principal's office,” upon hearing his name, Dick-Guy lifts his head. _“Now,”_ she hurries them.

“What did I do?” Skovron asks.

“I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to sleep while in detention,” the teacher clarifies and he throws his hands up in an exaggerated gesture of annoyance and confusion.

At least, he's free from Physics.

Then, Skovron seems to notice the little penises drawn on his forearm. “What the fuck?”

“Language, Mr. Skovron,” the teacher warns as they both walk out of the classroom.

“This was you, wasn't it?” he asks, pointing at the doodles. He licks his finger and rub it against his skin. “Oh c'mon, dude, it's _permanent_ marker, isn't it?”

Kavinsky shoves his hands inside the pocket of his denims. “Yeah.”

“Fucking hell,” he groans as they walk. Kavinsky is obviously stalling, dragging his feet, making sure he's moving slowly. He occasionally stops to read notices on the board he doesn't care in the slightest about. There’s one about some school play of The Picture of Dorian Gray. “Can we get moving?” Skovron asks from where he is a few steps away.

“Are you that eager to get a piece of paper telling you you were awarded with an extra hour? Because I sure as fuck ain't,” he shrugs. “Also, the more we stall, the less we have to put up with Physics.”

“And the less time I have to nap. Physics is my napping class, man.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to sleep while in detention,” he quotes their teacher and Skovron rolls his eyes.

Then, squinting at Kavinsky, he gasps—maybe too exaggeratedly for it to be truthful. “You’re the Kavinsky kid,” he says and his face twists with distaste. It takes a while for it to click, but it does, eventually. When the teacher called both of them, that name, Skovron, it has rung a bell, but it was such a distant bell that Kavinsky paid no mind to it. But now, having Skovron looking at him as if he’s a piece of dog shit he’s just stepped on, it clicks.

The Skovrons are some sort of branch of the Prokopenkos, which means this kid is probably cousin to Evgeni in some degree, which explains the sudden distaste. In fact, for him, it doesn’t because that guy was being somewhat decent to him just seconds ago, but Kavinsky has long given up understanding that quarrel.

“Almost a year sharing two classes with me and you only realised it now?” Kavinsky chuckles. “Very observant of you.”

“Physics is my napping class,” he says with a shrug.

“What about Literature?”

“I care too much about Literature to pay attention to my classmates.”

 _Arrogant much,_ he muses to himself as they keep walking.

The rest of the walk to the principal’s office, Kavinsky spends it trying to gather the biggest amount of information about Dick-Guy he can muster. His name is either Jake or Blake, maybe Drake, but he doubts it; his ears have so many piercings Kavinsky doesn’t know how they’re still glued to his skull instead of having fallen down because of the weight; he’s good looking; he probably hates him; he has five dicks drawn on his forearm. To the latter, Kavinsky allows a smug grin to spread across his lips.

When they walk into the principal’s office, Mr. Parker seems much less than thrilled to see them there, barely looking up from the files scattered on his desk. “How may I help you?”

“Detention,” Skovron shrugs.

“What class were you two at?”

“Mrs. Schwartz’s,” Kavinsky answers.

Mr. Parker nods and grabs a piece of paper, writing something on it and then hands it to them. Kavinsky looks at his sealed fate and sighs. Marvelous.

 

“Hey,” he pokes the back of Skovron’s head. “Hey, hey, hey.”

“The fuck you want?” he turns abruptly, causing the person watching them to glare. Then, he adds in a lower voice: “Can you stop bothering me?”

“Not really,” Kavinsky grins. “Why weren’t you at St. Mark’s yesterday?” he asks.

He shrugs. “My family’s too distant from the main branch, so I don’t have to go,” is all he answers before turning around. Kavinsky kicks his desk. “For God’s sake, man,” Skovron whines. “Go read, I don’t know. Just,” he gestures vaguely, “stop bothering me.”

Kavinsky doesn’t. Partly because, well, he’s bored, and partly because it’s funny to annoy him. Skovron gets pissed quite easily, he notices.

“What’s your name?” he asks, still kicking the desk lightly.

“Weren’t you the one who mocked me for not recognising you, despite having two classes with you?” he arches his brow before sighing. “Blake,” he answers. “Now, can you stop kicking my fucking desk?”

“Language,” the teacher warns without looking up from his phone.

Detention is boring. He wishes he could just nap as Blake’s doing. He wishes he could do anything, for the matter. His phone has been resting under the teacher’s table since he walked through that door, so no arcade games for him; kicking Skovron’s desk gets old pretty quickly, so he can risk that from his possibilities.

God, he just wants to have something to do.

Anything, really. He’s not picky. Doodling isn’t that fun when he has no real talent for drawing. In fact, he doesn’t think he has a talent for anything that isn’t self-hatred, but that’s not a good pastime. Or an effective one, for the matter; he’s tried before.

Kavinsky lets his head fall with a muted thump on his desk and groans. Then, he looks over at the clock hanging on the wall to find out it’s only been fifteen minutes. _For fuck’s sake._

Eventually, his mind wanders off to the Feast of St. Mark he’ll be attending in a couple of hours. Well, at least, there’ll be a lot of food, and his mom’s _banitsa,_ which is something she only bakes at special occasions like birthdays or New Year’s Eve. Kavinsky can’t help but think back to last year’s Feast. It had been chaos. At least three people ended up in the hospital, if he’s remembering correctly; two Prokopenkos and one Kavinsky, which resulted in a new argument.

It’s a never ending cycle, and it’s _exhausting._ He really doesn’t know _why_ it’s so tiring for him—he really shouldn’t mind it, but he does. It’s there in how much he feels the need to shout, to say that both families are stupid and ridiculous, borderline pitiful, even, and simply walk out of that church, flipping them the bird for good measure.

He clenches his jaw and drops his head again.

There are still half an hour to go and Skovron’s long gone into his sleep.

 

* * *

 

 _Oh my fucking God,_ he groans as he grabs from the ground a piece of silverware that has been thrown at him—well, not _at him,_ but at his general direction, anyway. The youngest Prokopenko, one of the twins, is smiling him a taunting smile. _How the fuck does a six years old manage to smile like that,_ he thinks as he rolls his eyes. Beside his sister, Evgeni is giggling and Kavinsky starts to wonder whether the fault was truly the kid’s.

This little incident draws attention, and he prays that it won’t start anything because he doesn’t want anything to be started.

But God has never been a friend of his, had He?

“What was that for?” some uncle shouts.

“What was what for?” a Prokopenko asks back in a snarl.

“This _child,_ ” and his grandmother spells it as if it ‘child’ is the most disgusting thing she has ever had to say in her eighty-and-something years of life, “threw her silverware at _my_ grandson.”

Kavinsky just wants to disappear, really.

“My daughter would never do this!” Nikoleta Prokopenko shoots back, the outrage clear in her tone. He can see Evgeni shrinking on his seat.

A shout here, a snarl there, and in no time the voices are thunderous around him, making practically impossible to understand who’s saying what. He groans and leaves the table.

Ridiculous, childish, pitiful.

He walks out to the parking lot and welcome the fresh breeze that caresses his skin; it kind of brushes away the tiredness creeping to his bones and he’s thankful for it. Kavinsky hates it when he feels tired, which is something he always is. Tired of pretty much of everything—his mother, school, dreaming, living.

“Hey,” Evgeni calls from behind. The voices inside the church are now muffled, sounding even distant. “Sorry about my sister.”

Kavinsky shrugs. It doesn’t matter, really. “Whatever, man,” he answers and looks up at the moon and the few stars whose shine pierce through light pollution. Looking up at the sky has always been a mean of reassurance—it all feels so insignificant that is somewhat reassuring.

“I guess I shouldn’t have told her to throw her spoon at you,” he offers and Kavinsky laughs.

“Yeah, man. Maybe you shouldn’t’ve,” but he’s still laughing because the damage is already done anyway, and it’s fun how little it took to set both families into a fight. “Why are they like that?” he asks to no one in particular, but Kavinsky sees Evgeni shrugging.

“They’re bound to be enemies forever?” he offers and it’s absurd, it is, so he laughs some more. It’s loud and high-pitched. He has always hated his laughter. “Maybe this will change. Most of my siblings don’t care. I know you don’t.”

And this tugs at his skin. How dares Evgeni Prokopenko assume he knows him? Though it is true that he doesn’t give half a shit about that quarrel, it still annoys him, so he says: “You don’t know that.”

“Do you care about it, Joey?” and the nickname does nothing to help.

“Joey?” Kavinsky asks, focusing on what annoyed him the most. “Who said you could call me that?”

Evgeni shrugs. “Can I?”

He scoffs. Could he? Maybe. Kavinsky doesn’t know for sure. It’s weird, actually, to be asked permission for anything. But the truth is that he didn’t _hate_ how it sounded coming out of Evgeni’s lips, so he shrugs. “Whatever,” he says, but he knows that he probably _would_ mind if anyone else tried to call him that.

Why him, then?

He doesn’t know, so he tries to brush it off. He manages to do so after a few tries. “So, do you care about the quarrel?” he asks again because, apparently, Evgeni Prokopenko can’t drop a subject.

“I don’t,” he answers before shaking his head. “I don’t know, dude. It’s stupid and a waste of time, but what can we do?”

They fall silent, the spring air swirling around them, running in the cracks between the pebbles under their feet. “Actually,” Evgeni says and there’s a playful smile forming on his lips. He leans closer and tells him his idea.

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s brilliant, so Kavinsky laughs and laughs until his stomach starts to hurt. “You’re a fucking genius, Genko!” he shouts and Evgeni is still smiling, though it’s a much softer curl twitching his lips upwards.

“I try,” he says with a small shrug. “But do you think it’ll work?”

“It depends on what you consider ‘work’,” Kavinsky answers. “I know for a fact that it’ll piss of my mother.”

“Don’t you care about side effects?”

“Oh _please,_ Genko,” and he smiles. “That’s the fun part, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you sososo much to zab for reading this fic and giving me reviews, and thank you to vic for putting up with my rantings. let me know if you find any mistakes or typos! please drop by to leave comments, or by my [twitter](https://twitter.com/floresetcorvi) and [tumblr](http://floresetcorvi.co.vu/) so we can talk abt kavinsky or trc or anything tbh


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"the risk i took was calculated,_  
>  _but, man, am i bad at math"  
>  _
> 
> -ADRIAN, Matt. ‘The Mincing Mockingbird Guide to Troubled Birds’

When Evgeni Prokopenko suggested his idea, he expected Joseph Kavinsky to laugh—which he did—and to call him crazy and brush the idea aside—which he didn't. He didn’t expect him to _accept_ it, which is why now Evgeni’s finding a thousand problems and bad ways it could end into.

God, the odds are totally _not_ in their favour, but Kavinsky is smiling, defiant and malicious, and Evgeni thinks he doesn't really have the power to back track now. _Oh God_ , he whines to himself. “Are you sure?” he asks again because, Hell, he's not sure himself, but Kavinsky only nods. “But, like, it can end badly. _Very_ badly.”

“Are you a chickening out, Genko?” he asks and looks at him, those blue eyes sending a shiver down his spine. Evgeni swallows dry.

“It's not about chickening out, Joey,” he starts. “It's about weighing down the pros and cons. You should do it.”

“I've already done it,” which is bullshit because Kavinsky hasn't stopped for a single second before accepting. _Oh God oh God oh God._ “It's fine for me. Unless you don’t wanna do it,” he says, but it sounds more like a question.

They’re left in an awkward silence.

Evgeni can't say he isn't unsure of it. To be honest, it was a joke. Kavinsky wasn't supposed to _agree_. Maybe he miscalculated how much Joseph Kavinsky despises the quarrel, and how far he's willing to go just to cause a commotion. However, Evgeni Prokopenko has far too much pride to walk out of his own stupid idea.

However, if he does insist on this idea, it'll mean hearing even more shit from Ivan, it’ll be having to stand Ekaterina’s comments and Gergana’s worried look, while Dimitar will lose whatever drop of faith he still has in him. It’ll be disappointing his mother, and Evgeni loves Nikoleta a bit too much to bear her disappointment.

His pride gnaws at the back of his brain, and Evgeni looks at Kavinsky, at blue eyes and slender, trembling fingers, at calloused hands and thin lips. Evgeni hates to admit it, but there's a crush that has been growing inside of him. It's not really a _crush,_ and more like interest. Kavinsky is good looking and fun to be around, and Evgeni likes the idea of maybe, perhaps, making out with him.

Now that the cat is out of the bag, he can't backtrack. Not after Kavinsky accepts his dumb, dumb idea.

Evgeni sighs. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Joey echoes, and the awkwardness grows worse, and they both burst out laughing. Evgeni’s gaze may or may not have lingered for a second longer on Kavinsky’s neck gleaming under the light as he throws his head backwards. “It's your idea,” he says after he regains his breath. “So, I leave you in charge of deciding how the fuck we do this.”

Evgeni is still trying to breathe through his laughter, but he fails and ends up choking on it, which makes Kavinsky laughs harder, and they're drowning in laughters until his belly is already hurting. Evgeni coughs a bit before managing to speak again.

“I don't know how to do it,” he says. “I didn't think you'd agree to it, in the first place.”

Kavinsky shrugs. “I didn't see why not. If it'll piss them off, I'm good with it. What do I have to lose?” he mocks.

Evgeni has a long list of things a teenager may lose by being gay, starting with the peace inside their own home, but he bites his tongue. Fake dating, for him, will only deepen the wound; he’s sort of used to the fact that his father will never look at him as his equal anymore. For Kavinsky, however, it can _open_ the wound, and Heaven knows how deep it can cut.

It’s none of his business, he tells himself, but Evgeni Prokopenko has never been good at keeping himself from meddling, which is why he can’t help but ask once more: “Are you really sure, Joey?”

“Jesus, what the fuck can go wrong?”

“Coming out to your family like that may not be the best idea, that’s all.”

“I’m not coming out,” he says as if it’s obvious. “I’m not,” he vaguely gestures, “you know, gay or anything.”

“Oh,” is all Evgeni can muster. “Then why would you—”

“Because I want to piss them off,” he cuts sharply. “Simple as that. I'd rather do it with your sister, but I don't think she'd be down to it.”

And it stings a bit, even if he doesn't want to admit. He breathes a couple of times before the mental image of Joseph Kavinsky kissing Ekaterina is somewhat bearable. It’s not his place to disagree, to argue, or to push, he knows that much, so he nods. “Okay, then. How are we doing this?”

“Never dated before, but it can't be that hard,” Kavinsky says, grin plastered on his face as he offers Evgeni his hand.

The lengths they are going only to piss off their families are definitely crossing the ‘acceptable’ line, cartwheeling down the ‘too much’ line, and bordering the ridiculous.

 _I'm not, you know, gay,_ the words echo and it sounds too much like the disgust in his father's words. Maybe a little bit less hateful, yes, but the disgust is still there. What was he to expect, though? That a fifteen years old, son of someone like Andrei Kavinsky, would be _chill_ about homosexuality? It's a bit far fetched, he knows. Damn, he doesn't know how _he_ himself managed to be chill about it while having Ivan as a father. The man is constantly saying how being gay it's not only a choice, but the lack of a good beating, too.

He knows his father blames Nikoleta for it. She shields Evgeni too much, she doesn't allow him to lay a finger on any of her children. And Ivan can't do anything about it because who is Ivan Petrovna without Nikoleta Prokopenko? No one; someone far too unimportant for him to risk drowning himself in debts once again, which is why he never hurt any of his children. Not physically, at least.

Evgeni tries to brush it off, he really does. But it's hard. It's hard to ignore the tone, the twitch of lips, the small frown as if it was the biggest absurdity for Joseph Kavinsky to be _gay_ , or to like boys, be him any non-mono sexuality that he might’ve been. It's hard to look past it because it's a sight he's used to, having seeing it so many times plastered on his father's and sibling’s face. Except Nikolay; Nikolay would never love him less, that he knows for sure.

“Let's get going, _baby?_ ” Kavinsky jokes and Evgeni takes his hand and shivers when his warm palm touches Joey’s cold one, and they walk back to the church.

 

To say their reaction was fun is an understatement. Evgeni has to choose whom he'll look at. The first thing he sees when they walk inside the church, hands clasped together, is his father fuming—Ivan is truly turning red out of anger. Gergana eyes drop and she shakes her head. Dimitar looks like he's just witnessed a murder. Ekaterina seems about to spit on them.

Nikoleta sighs and it sort of breaks his heart, he admits, but just the pure outrage forming on everyone's face is priceless. He's fairly sure there's someone passing out.

It doesn't take longer than five seconds for the voices to burst out, shouting curses and asking questions with such ferocity that he hardly believes they want an answer. He wants to laugh, he really does, but he bites his cheek, instead. He looks over at Kavinsky, who's looking radiant as if their outrage fuels his smile.

It probably does.

“Joseph!” Monika shouts, and Kavinsky seems to grow beside him, despite being almost a head shorter than Evgeni.

“Genko!” Ivan shouts at the same time, and Evgeni wishes he was half as brave as Kavinsky, because he feels like flinching at his father’s tone, but the hands clasped in his grounds him for a brief while; long enough for him to feel brave again.

Kavinsky leans on his shoulder and Evgeni holds back a laughter. But then he remembers he doesn't have to hold it back; just mask it so it seems sweet, almost fond. And he does it just to see the anger flaming up in his father's hazel orbs.

God, _does_ it pay back.

Ivan is so outraged he might just throw something at them. Nikoleta sees it, too, and holds her husband's wrist. Evgeni has seen it too many times; he knows what it means: _you're overstepping; calm down because if you hurt my child, you'll be out in the street in the blink of an eye_. Nikoleta has her priorities straights: her children before anyone else.

With anger still outlining every trace on his face, Ivan sits down, a promise of having a talk later implied in his posture. Evgeni feels his shoulders slumping out of habit, but tries to shrug it off.

He feels Kavinsky tugging at his hand, pulling him towards the table, and he allows himself to be pulled; the tug welcomed, even.

Evgeni can feel every eye on the room piercing through his skin, burning even more than Kavinsky's touch did not long ago. When they walk past Monika, he can hear her whispering: “Your father will know about this,” and the squeeze in his hand isn't gentle this time. But it's so brief that Evgeni wonders if he hasn't imagined it. And because he's feeling a little bold, he kisses Kavinsky's cheek before heading to his own seat, ignoring Ekaterina’s offended gasp.

When he sits down again, Nikoleta places a hand on his knee and whispers to him: “What are you doing?”

He refuses to answer it and does his best to ignore his mother's stare burning through his skin like fire through paper; a central point, then burning and crumbling everything around it.

 

The night passes with people staring at them both, from blatant stares to shy glimpses, as if looking at them would steal a piece of their bodies.

It's… different, to have that much attention turned at him. It feels like a spotlight bathing him in white, scalding light and Evgeni has never been good at dealing with being the centre of attention, so he sometimes sink into his chair, some other times he closes his eyes and try to recreate the burning sensation from when they were holding hands not so long ago.

The night passes and it's not as insufferable as he expected it to be. The reminder that he'll probably hear a lot from his father weighs down on his heart with each passing minute, but it's okay. Also, he can't help but look at Kavinsky's triumphant grin when people whisper and look, how he grows bigger with every glance. It truly is fueling him and Evgeni can't help but admire it.

It's remarkable, really. Worthy of envy, almost.

At least, under this stupidly improvised cover, he doesn't need to censor himself when he steal glimpses of blue eyes and shaky fingers. He can say it's just to add up to the role.

He draws his phone from his pocket and looks at the time. Almost one in the morning, which means the whole ordeal is close to an end.

He just wants to sleep, the tiredness is already blooming in different parts of his body, stretching outwards and taking over everything, minute by minute, until Evgeni can feel his eyelids closing without him intending for them to do so.

God, he still has to drive back home. “Excuse me,” he whispers to his mother as he pushes the chair back. Nikoleta only nods and he feels her gaze on his back as he walks away.

By the corner of his eye, he sees Kavinsky getting up as well and he feels his shoulder slumping. God. He really hates how his body behaves differently than how he wants. Damned be muscle memory or body language or whatever.

Evgeni welcomes the fresh breeze as he steps outside, and is glad it wakes him up a bit.

The brief pleasure lasts for about five seconds before he feels an arm slinging around his shoulders. The cold, trembling hands touch lightly his arm. “Hello, _sweetheart,”_ Kavinsky mocks and Evgeni rolls his eyes. “Have you seen their faces?” and a triumphant laugh escapes his throat as he waltz forward so he’s standing before Evgeni. “They were _so_ pissed, oh my God!” and the laughter is a bit clearer this time. “You are a _genius_ , dude!” to which Evgeni simply shrugs.

“I actually didn’t think you’d accept,” he repeats, honestly.

“Did you take me for a coward, Genko?”

“No,” and it’s true. “I just took you for a straight boy who’s adamant about being straight.”

Kavinsky shrugs. “It’s a lie, anyway,” he says. “It’s just pretend so we can piss them off.”

“Yeah, Joey.”

“Also, we’re not keeping it up for long,” which is the obvious and Evgeni curses at his teenage heart for squeezing in his chest. Stupid crushes. “Why’d you walk out here for?”

“Wow, Joey,” he ironizes. “Fake dating me for a couple of hours and you’re already all demanding.”

“What can I say?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’m a possessive boyfriend,” to which Prokopenko bursts out laughing, attracting the eye of a woman who walked out to smoke.

“God, I’m sleepy,” he whines. “And I still have to drive home. Shit.” Evgeni runs a hand over his face in a failed attempt to brush off sleepiness. He brushes his hair with his fingers. Kavinsky is looking at him. “What?”

There are a few heartbeats before he says anything. “Nothing,” he shrugs again. “I can drive you, if you want.”

“I’m with my car,” Evgeni reminds him.

“So? I can drive a fucking Golf.”

“Yeah, but you’d have to walk back here after dropping me to get your own car,” Prokopenko points.

“Damn, dude. I just tried to be decent, but knock yourself off driving while you’re half falling asleep,” Kavinsky lifts his hands into the air.

“Drama queen,” Evgeni comments, a giggle working its way out of his lips. “You can just drop me off,” he says. “I'll come tomorrow to get my car.”

“It can get keyed.”

“Well, I guess we'll have to wait and see.”

There’s a hint of dare in his voice and he’s pretty aware of it, of how Kavinsky may react to a challenge, no matter how small and simple. He doesn’t look like the type to back away from a dare. “Then, I’ll take you home, baby.”

“What’s with the pet names?”

Kavinsky smirks. “I’m trying to sell it. You know, I’m a committed guy.”

“Are you, now?” Evgeni asks, his brow raised. He nods and Prokopenko laughs. The woman's annoyed stare is drawn back to them. _Let people laugh, woman,_ he says in his head. “How will you drop me off with your mom?”

“Oh, she'll be too drunk to notice the detour,” he says, making a dismissive gesture. “Or the extra person on the passenger seat.”

“I'll get to ride shotgun?” Evgeni makes an over exaggerated gasp. “I am flattered, Joey.”

“What can I say?” and there it is the pretentious smirk again. “I'm a great boyfriend.”

They both laugh this time. It feels good. It's the kind of laughter that bubbles all the way up to his body, shaking everything as it goes. Kavinsky runs a hand through his dark hair. He glares at the woman behind them, and Evgeni is thankful he's not at the receiving end of that glare; it's sharp and cold and deadly. “The fuck you're staring us for?”

The woman mutters in Bulgarian. He flips her the bird and calls her a _кучка_ . _Kuchka._ Bitch. Evgeni doesn't know Bulgarian, but he's heard that word before, slipping from Dimitar’s mouth. “Didn't know you spoke Bulgarian.”

“You never asked,” Kavinsky returns his gaze to Evgeni, much less threatening, although still far from soft. “Also, I just know the basics,” he shrugs it off as if it's nothing.

“Like calling women bitches?”

“That,” he grins, “is thanks to my mom. She's always calling other women that.” There are a few heartbeats before they speak again. “My mom kind of raised me bilingual,” Kavinsky says. “She always said it was important to know another language, and to be close to traditions,” he shrugs. “I like it. I can talk shit about people to their face; as long as I’m smiling, they think I’m being nice.”

“Oh my god, you're such a dick,” Evgeni laughs. “I'll be suspicious when you speak Bulgarian around me, now.”

“You haven't given me any reason to be a dick to you,” he says. “But yeah, Genko. It's better for you to watch out.”

They fall silent again, Kavinsky intently watching the stars, his eyes scanning them as if they were looking for something. Evgeni wonders if he knows any constellations.

He doesn't ask, settling on simply watching the boy watching the stars. A few minutes go by before something is said again. “What are you staring at, Genko?” Kavinsky asks. Evgeni finds amusing how he says the nickname, lazily spelling it, as if tasting every letter.

“You,” he answers.

“I noticed that,” he cranes his head and grins. “There's nothing worthy looking at,” he warns.

“I beg to differ.”

Kavinsky laughs. “Who the fuck says this?”

It's weird, to say the least. _I'm not, you know, gay,_ but every sentence comes out flirtatious, with an arch of brow and daring smirk. Kavinsky implied that he doesn't do boys, but it feels odd, all of that underlying flirting, how he’s not stopping Evgeni from doing it. He thinks he's probably just imagining it. It's just his silly teenage crush talking.

“You're pretty gay, Genko.”

“How observant of you, Joey,” he chuckles. “What gave me away?”

Kavinsky turns his gaze to him, and it feels weird, to be stared at by those blue orbs, to be the object of attention of Joseph Kavinsky, if only for a while, if only for a silly reason. Those eyes carry some intensity Evgeni cannot fathom.

He scoffs. “Your socks.”

“What?”

“Your socks gave you away,” he clarifies. “They're mismatched and they have prints."

Prokopenko can't help but laugh. Yeah, out of everything about him and his sexuality, it was his socks that gave him away. Not that he's been hiding his sexuality for it to be given away in the first place. And he knows that Kavinsky probably just said the first thing that came to his mind, but it's still funny.

“Socks aren't gay, Joey.”

“Yours are,” he says pointedly. He pulls up the hem of his own pants, showing his plain, white socks as to prove a point.

“You wear boring socks. Wow, Joey, how heterosexual of you.”

And they both laugh again.

Joseph Kavinsky truly is the most interesting thing about St. Mark celebrations. Evgeni doesn’t know his own cousins well enough to joke with them, and he wouldn’t bother trying to befriend a Kavinsky. Somehow, his acquaintance with this particular Kavinsky works. It always worked since they found each other outside the church, both searching for peace and quiet, away from the families, two years ago.

“Joseph!” his mother calls from the church. Her voice isn’t warm or velvety, as people say to describe voices. It’s sharp and leaves Evgeni feeling empty, as if it stole something from him. It hangs heavy, the memory of how she sounds clear in his ears. “We’re going home,” she announces, already marching towards the Mitsubishi. Kavinsky merely follows her with his eyes.

He turns to Prokopenko. “When are you leaving?”

Apparently, he wasn’t joking about the lift. “I don’t know.”

“Give me your phone,” he orders and Evgeni is confused for a while. “I’ll give you my number. You can text me when you’re leaving. I’ll come pick you up.”

“Joseph!” Monika urges.

Evgeni hands Kavinsky his phone, the latter types the number and Evgeni laughs at how he saved the contact as _best boyfriend in town_ followed by the sunglasses emoji.

Kavinsky follows his mother, sparing Evgeni a wink before leaving.

Then, Evgeni is standing alone in the parking lot. It’s awfully empty without Joey there, despite the amount of cars. Even the woman staring at them left before Monika came. He looks up at the stars, but he doesn’t know how to look for constellations.

He stares at his feet, instead.

Then, he goes back to the church, to wait for his parents to get tired and decide to leave, which take good thirty minutes to happen, and Evgeni is dreading every second of it.

“C’mon, Genko,” Nikoleta says, tapping him in the shoulder to wake him up; he’s been dozing off for the past ten minutes. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay, mama,” he agrees, already fishing his phone from his pocket and typing a quick _im leaving_ to Kavinsky. When they’re outside the church, his parents already reaching the Toyota Sienna with his five younger siblings, he says: “I’m too sleepy to drive. Joey will take me home.”

“Who?” Ivan snarls, hand tights around the handle. He knows who Evgeni is talking about. Petar, his brother, who’s been too busy staring at the screen of his 3DS, looks at him and shakes his head tiredly, as if asking him ‘why are you doing this? I want to sleep’, and enters the car, following Ekaterina.

“Joseph Kavinsky,” Evgeni answers with all the bravery he can muster. Being brave has always been hard for Evgeni Prokopenko.

Ekaterina sticks her head out of the window and shouts: “You’re so stupid, Genko!”

“Katya,” Nikoleta censors. “Dimitar or Gergana can drive you, Genko. Go with them.”

“Joey’s already on his way,” he lies. He doesn’t know that, still waiting for the reply. He hears Gergana’s knuckles cracking from where she’s standing beside her Maserati Granturismo. She always does that when she’s nervous. Dimitar slams the door of his Audi and starts the car. He’s angry.

Nikoleta looks at him, and he feels as if being dissected. He looks away, but her gaze is still on him, piercing, reading every detail about him. His mother was always able to do that, and Evgeni still doesn’t know whether he hates it or not.

During the conversation, Ekaterina, Petar and Nikolay already settled inside the car. Nikoleta sighs and go tend to the twins, Anastasiya and Aleksandar, and try to sit them and tie them to whatever those special seats for children are called.

Ivan, on the other hand, is still gripping tightly the door handle. “We’ll talk about this when you get home, little man,” and he slams the door, too. Dimitar probably got the habit from him. Nikoleta spares him a last glance before climbing inside the car, as well.

And they all drive off. First his parents, followed by Gergana and Dimitar.

Evgeni is, once again, found alone in the parking lot. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

_best boyfriend in town [1:52 2013/04/26]: im omw_

Fifteen minutes later, the white Mitsubishi Evo is pulling over. Kavinsky rolls down the window as if Evgeni didn’t know it’s him. For some reason, he’s wearing sunglasses. The smirk he gives is not as pretentious as before.

There’s something wrong.

Evgeni doesn’t mention it as he climbs inside and politely thanks him. Kavinsky shrugs it off. He gives the boy his address and they drive. The silence inside that car is crushing Evgeni under its weight. “Isn’t the sun just scalding today?” he jokes, but Kavinsky doesn’t laugh. His grip on the steering wheel tightens. His knuckles go white.

Evgeni closes his eyes and waits. Suddenly, all of the tiredness is gone from his body and he’s fully awake. He glances towards the boy beside him; his blue eyes are fixed on the road with a concerning intensity. And they’re glistening, watery. Is he _crying?_

“Joey?” he calls, tentatively, but to no avail. Kavinsky gives no sign he’s aware of Evgeni presence beside him, and maybe he isn’t.

The silence perdures all the way to Evgeni’s street. When he’s about to leave, Joey finally speaks something. “Do you need to be home?” he asks. He doesn’t know how to answer that.

“What do you…” he tries, hoping Kavinsky will understand and fill the blank with ‘mean’. But he doesn’t. “What do you mean by it, Joey?”

“Can you go somewhere else for the night?” he asks and turns to him. Evgeni can’t see his eyes, hidden behind the shades are they are, but it still makes him stir on his seat. He knows Kavinsky is staring at him, but there are no eyes for him to meet, nothing to try to grasp.

“Yeah,” he says, weakly, slowly, looking at his front door. He’s not that eager to talk with Ivan, anyway. “Yeah,” he repeats, stronger this time. “Sure. Where do you wanna go?”

And Kavinsky grins. It’s menacing. Thankfully, he turns his gaze back at the road and starts the Mitsubishi. It sounds like an omen, and Evgeni doesn’t know what he just agreed to.

 

* * *

 

Joseph Kavinsky has never been an object of Evgeni’s curiosity.

Despite the silly crush, Evgeni never tried to _know_ who the boy is; it never mattered because they only saw each other twice a year. Of course, they could bump into each other every now and then, trade words and all of that, but they were, objectively, acquaintances.

They still are.

Evgeni never bothered to get to know Kavinsky, so he doesn’t know what to expect as he drives them to God knows where. Why did he even agree to let a near stranger drive him? Anxiety starts to creep to his bones. Kavinsky never gave him any sign that Evgeni could trust him.

 _You’re so stupid, Genko,_ Ekaterina’s words come to haunt him.

He wants to ask, but he’s afraid to. He wants to know what’s with the sunglasses, why he’s so silent, where they’re going, but he doesn’t find in himself the courage to ask.

Evgeni waits in the silence, staring at the buildings and houses until they become more and more scarce. Then, he stares at the trees.

 _Where the fuck are we going,_ he wonders as they drive towards a gas station, the neon light creating a fluorescent white halo around it. Kavinsky pulls over to the convenience store and, without a word, leaves the car.

Evgeni checks his phone—he put it on silent mode because he knew his parents would flood him with messages and calls. He was right. There are three missed calls from Ivan, five from his mother, and dozens of texts from both. He doesn’t open the family group chat, but he sees the last message was sent by Nikolay. _I hope he’s okay_ , it reads and Evgeni’s heart clenches.

He texts his brother.

Nikolay Prokopenko is easily his favourite brother, and the only one he truly doesn’t want to disappoint.

 _i’m good,_ he types. _not coming back tonight tho. please don’t tell mama and papa. just wanted u to know._ He knows Nikolay won’t snitch, but he feels bad about making him lie to their parents. Evgeni pockets his phone just as Kavinsky is returning from the convenience store, a crate of Pepsi Twist in one hand, a plastic bag with at least four bottles of something alcoholic in the other.

He places them on the backseat and climbs on the driver seat.

“Aren’t you too young to buy alcohol?”

“Fake ID,” Kavinsky says simply, which explains why he’s driving despite still being fifteen.

“You don’t look twenty-one,” Evgeni notes.

“The cashier didn’t look like he cared.”

And that was it. They’re back at driving in silence.

They drive and they drive, and Evgeni is once again dozing off.

 

He doesn’t know when or how they end up there, but Kavinsky pulls up—a bit too harshly. He startles awake and see that they’re in the middle of nowhere. “Joey,” he calls, confusion and sleep slurring his words. “Where are we?” he asks.

Kavinsky grins again, perfect white teeth framed by thin, chapped lips, but he doesn’t answer. He walks out of the car, grabs the crate and the plastic bag, retrieves a backpack from the trunk and walks away. Evgeni, confused and not in the mood for staying alone in the car, is quick to follow.

As a matter of fact, now that he looks properly, he _knows_ where they are, but he doesn’t know _why_ it took so long to arrive. The abandoned pumping station is less than a fifteen minutes drive from his home, and they drove for over an hour, he’s sure of it.

Maybe Kavinsky was just stalling, driving aimlessly until he’s tired and decides to stop at the station. Evgeni doesn’t know and he has the feeling that asking won’t make a difference, so he simply follows. He looks at his phone again.

A few more calls, a couple of new messages. Nikolay agreed not to say anything as long as Evgeni promised to buy him McDonald’s whenever he wants within the next month, to which he replies an ‘okay fine’ and shoves his phone in his pocket again.

Then, he hears something. Buzzing, distant. It’s a bass. He looks at the station, and it’s outlined by flashing lights. There's a party happening just behind the building, despite being a random day. He has to jog to catch up with Kavinsky, whose gaze is fixed ahead. Breaking in the abandoned pumping station near Campbells Pond is farther from Evgeni’s idea of what his Thursday night would be like.

Well, it’s already Friday, technically, and there he is, following Joseph Kavinsky towards an abandoned building, questions flooding his mind, uncertainty marking every step he takes. There’s something eerie about it, and not solely because of the darkness, but how Kavinsky moves, his small figure barely discernible in the absence of light, his white sunglasses so distinct against the blackness.

Evgeni tentatively looks at Kavinsky, whose grin grows wider with each step he takes towards the station. “Joey,” he calls again, but to no avail. He's growing impatient, so he places himself in front of Kavinsky and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Get your hands off me,” he snarls and Evgeni can't help but flinch. Kavinsky laughs. “You said you could go somewhere else for the night,” he reminds Evgeni.

“I did, but you never told me _where_ we were going.”

“Does it matter?”

Of course it matters. How can it not matter? “Why are you wearing sunglasses?” he asks instead.

Kavinsky laughs again. It's a hollow sound; ironic, even. “Weed,” he answers and it's a blatant lie. “Quit asking questions, Genko.”

“You drag me here, wearing fucking sunglasses in the middle of the night, buying a shitton of alcohol with a fake ID, and you expect me not to ask anything?”

“So what? What the fuck are you, Genko, a saint?” he scoffs. It's uncomfortable and Evgeni wants to ask what's so funny. “Why are you so fucking curious? Want me to take you home so your shitty father can talk your ear off, be my motherfucking guest, man,” he snaps, and it's so sudden that Evgeni is taken aback. “You said you didn't mind going out. I took you out.”

“Then tell me what we're doing here.”

“Oh my god, are you seriously this dumb? It's a book club—what the fuck do you think this is? Haven't you ever been to a party? Don’t you know what to do?” he takes off his sunglasses and Evgeni wishes he'd put it back on. Not only because of the fire and anger inside those eyes—he could set a thousand cities on fire with a mere glance. But also because there's an ugly bruise forming near his left eye, purple and green stains framing blue orbs, who are swimming in a sea of red. “You get fucking wasted. That's what you do at a motherfucking party,” he says and glares into Evgeni's eyes. It's unbearable. The blood staining the white of his eyes is disturbing, transforming the irises into islands floating in there.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Quit. Asking. Questions,” Kavinsky repeats, pausing between each word. He leans closer and he smells of alcohol already and, oddly, strawberry. The stench of cigarette is attached to his clothes, to his hair. He walks past Evgeni, bumping their shoulders none too gently.

Cursing under his breath, he walks towards the loud EDM music, that grows deafening by the time he reaches Kavinsky.

Evgeni is taken aback by what he sees. Floodlights illuminate the ground behind the pumping station. Dozens of people are scattered around. Cars are crashing against each other in some sick, real life version of bumper cars. There are several things catching fire, molotov cocktails being thrown at ghost car shells. “What the fuck is this?” he shouts over the music. Two cars, a red one and a blue one, drive towards each other, drifting just before the crash, sending dust up in the air.

The crowd goes wild.

“I told you no questions, Genko.”

Kavinsky walks up to a guy and they do a friendly handshake. He gives the guy his backpack, which he inspects. After a few seconds, he hands Kavinsky his backpack and taps him on the shoulder. They trade a few more words, the guy’s gaze turning to Prokopenko for a brief while before returning to the boy in front of him.

When he’s back, Kavinsky holds up a finger. “No questions,” he says before Evgeni can even open his mouth. “This,” he spreads his arms, “is a substance party.”

“What is a substance party?”

“You really are a saint, aren’t you?” Kavinsky laughs, but it’s still far from the honest laughters he gave back at the church. “It’s a party. Lots of drugs. Things going _boom_ ,” he grins as he mimics an explosion with his hands. “Try not to die.”

“Can we really be here?”

Kavinsky shrugs. “I brought my substance,” he moves his shoulder, indicating the backpack, “and yours, too. Now, enough with the questions. I already answered everything you needed to know.”

Evgeni holds back the urge to tell that he has not, in fact, answered everything. He wants to know why he has a bruise, how he knows that place, that guy, why he took them there—Evgeni has many doubts filling his mind as he watches a molotov cocktail fly through the air and land on the hood of a destroyed car. The crowd cheers and walks towards it. Kavinsky laughs, his small body bending backwards.

He takes a bottle from the bag and unscrew the cap, taking a gulp. He shoves it into Evgeni’s chest, an eyebrow raised in a dare, a smirk playing on his lips. He’s never drunk before; not really his thing, but Joseph Kavinsky is daring him to and the music is deafening and two crashes again.

He takes a gulp, too, and it’s the worst thing he ever tasted, but the burning sensation feels good, so he doesn’t totally hates it. Kavinsky takes the bottle from his hand, their fingers brushing as he does so, and pours some of the Pepsi Twist inside it. Evgeni supposes there’s no way in Hell that thing tastes good, but drinks anyway when Kavinsky gives the bottle back to him.

It’s not that bad.

One sip becomes a gulp, becomes two, becomes half a bottle, becomes two.

Evgeni finds out that night that he’s a lightweight and he’s drunk halfway through the first bottle. Kavinsky, on the other hand, seems to be fine after drinking two bottles of whatever he’d brought, which shouldn’t be humanly possible. He drowns another one, not allowing Evgeni to touch it, despite the whines. “You’re already too fucking drunk, Genko,” he says and he brings the bottle to his lips.

How long has it been since they arrived? He doesn’t know; a few minutes, a few hours, a whole day—time is hard to grasp. He’s sitting down, his back against the brick wall of the pumping station, Kavinsky beside him.

There’s a guy by his right retching on the floor, throwing up every content from his stomach, less than two meters away. Evgeni looks and looks and looks at him, feeling his stomach churn, until Kavinsky taps his shoulder, attracting his attention. A molotov cocktail meets its destination somewhere to his left.

“You’re already so fucking wasted, man,” he jokes, slinging an arm around Evgeni’s shoulder. “We’re not even at the good stuff yet.”

“And what would that be?” his words are slurred, blurred together, unfinished. Kavinsky’s grinning. He has his sunglasses back on, which Evgeni is thankful for. He takes another gulp. Prokopenko reaches out to touch his face where the bruise is. “What happened?” he asks again.

Kavinsky throws the empty bottle at a car, ignoring the owner’s curse. “None of your fucking business,” he hisses the answer and takes his backpack from his shoulder. He unzips it and retrieves a small package of pills from it. “Hey, Cooper!” he shouts and the guy Kavinsky talked to, somehow, hears him and comes over. He tosses the package.

“Thanks, J,” Cooper says as he examines the pills. Then, he smiles menacingly before announcing: “Hey, everyone! Joe K’s pills are here!” to which the crowd cheers and Evgeni feels lost. Kavinsky is _known_ in this place, and not only that, but also his pills mean something.

People come by, taking a pill or two. “Where do you even get these, man?” a man twice their age asks and Kavinsky shrugs, telling him that a magician never reveals his secrets.

Evgeni watches as the boy beside suddenly becomes the centre of attention of that whole chaotic party; the cars stop crashing and drifting for a while, molotov cocktails aren’t thrown. The only movement comes from the DJ and the people coming to Kavinsky and going away, pills in hand.

Evgeni sees how the boy beside him grows with the attention, just like he did back at the church, only this time it scares him. Kavinsky is sitting upright, sunglasses hiding his eyes and his bruise, grin wide and inviting. He’s beautifully dangerous, Prokopenko notes as a girl takes a pill and winks at him. She seems to be ten years older, he also notes.

God. He wants to sleep.

The drunkenness in his brain isn’t doing much to keep him awake. As a matter of fact, it’s making it harder. “Will you want one, Genko?” Kavinsky asks, showing him the silver, glittery pill. He shakes his head. He doesn’t want any recreative drugs, he’s sure of it, even though Joey is offering him, smile inviting and perilous. “Your loss, then,” he places the pill on his tongue and swallow it dry.

Evgeni finds out that being drunk while the only person you know at the party is getting high, is no fun. He’s bored as Kavinsky looks at the sky, unmoving. Sometimes, he’ll suddenly laugh or even moan, which makes Evgeni’s ears burn pink, but he’s mostly silent. It feels like he’s dead. It’s horrifying and Prokopenko doesn’t know whether or not he should reach out.

He decides against it.

Now that most people are high on whatever pill Joey brought with him, the place is relatively silent. The music is not as deafening as before because the DJ, too, is high, which means he just left something playing in a much lower volume.

He looks around, he looks at Joey.

He glances at the dozens of crashed cars, at the dried mud splashed on their sides. He glances at people—dancing, gently swaying their bodies off-rhythm, laughing maniacally, screaming because of the high. It’s a terrifying sight and Evgeni knows he’ll be haunted by it when he’s sober again.

Picking his phone from his pocket, he finds out it’s almost six in the morning. He also finds even more calls and text messages. Nikolay hasn’t said anything ever since Evgeni promised to buy him McDonald’s. Skov called a couple of times, too. There are twelve missed calls from his mother, the last one an hour ago.

Out of nowhere, Kavinsky jolts upright beside him. Startled by the sudden motion, Evgeni drops his phone. It cracks the screen, he sees when he picks it up. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he mocks when Kavinsky’s attention turn to him.

“What time is it?” he asks, taking off the sunglasses and squeezing his eyes shut. Evgeni shows him the phone screen. “Shit, man,” he cowers away from the bright light. “The fuck you leave the brightness so high for?” he rubs his eyes.

“What happened to your face, Joey?” he asks again. The drunkenness is wearing thin, now. His head starts to throb. _Shit_.

“I already told you to drop it,” Kavinsky answers. “It’s none of your business. Don’t meddle.”

Evgeni lets out a frustrated sigh, but complies with it anyway.

The sun is starting to rise, tinging the deep blue sky with light. His head aches, his body hurts from sitting for so long. Kavinsky is beside him, bruised face and glazed eyes, still not totally clean from the high. Evgeni looks, stealing glimpses of fidgety hands and stoic expression.

Then, Kavinsky stands up and stretches his back. “I’m too wasted to drive,” he announces. “So Imma sleep in the car. Are you coming?”

Evgeni hasn’t taken him for a safer driver. “What else will I do, dude? Sleep _here?_ ” and he gestures towards the ground as to make a point. He gets up as well, instantly regretting it as his knees complain under his weight. Kavinsky shrugs, not looking at him, but at the rising sun.

They leave the grounds behind the pumping station, Kavinsky saying his goodbye to a couple people as they walk past them. Evgeni is still at loss at how he’s known in this place, at how those strangers, most of them older than them, know and somewhat put up with him.

Because of drugs.

It’s weird. It doesn’t fit quite right. A fifteen years old dealing drugs to all of those people. For fuck’s sake, Kavinsky is a _teenager_. It feels wrong, but Evgeni doesn’t bother asking; looking past at the night, the boy is not eager to answer anything.

They walk to the Mitsubishi in silence. Joey yanks the door open and flops on the driver seat. “G’night,” he mumbles and, almost instantly, he’s asleep.

Evgeni falls asleep on the backseat.

 

* * *

 

 He wakes up because Kavinsky is poking his rib insistently. “What?” he grumbles, squinting his eyes as a reflex because of the sudden flood of sunlight.

“I’m dropping you off. I got shit to do,” Kavinsky says. Evgeni’s head is throbbing mercilessly. It’s almost enough to make him regret last night.

“What time is it?” he asks. He tries his phone, but it’s dead, no battery left in it.

“Noon, I guess,” Kavinsky shrugs. “Do I drop you at your house or do you want your car?”

Sleep is still veiling his mind, making it hard to understand what Joey’s saying, but it hits him, eventually. His Golf, that is parked at the church. Right. “I want my car,” he answers.

“Sure you can drive yourself?”

“Do you care?”

Kavinsky grins. “Nah,” he answers. “But St. Mark will be boring next year without you there,” he offers and Evgeni rolls his eyes as he sits up and climbs out of the car, then on the passenger seat.

“I can drive myself, Joey,” he says.

Kavinsky starts the engine and they drive off to the church, where Evgeni’s red Golf is untouched, just like he left it a few hours ago. “Here we are, darlin’,” Joey announces and Prokopenko smirks.

“How long are we keeping this up?”

“We barely started and you’re already talking about breaking up? Whoa, man. Don’t you believe in love?”

In other conditions, maybe he’d joke along, but he’s tired, his head is throbbing, his lower back seems eager to murder him. And there are his parents, waiting for him. God, he’s so fucked. “Joey,” he pleads.

“I don’t know. Let’s just roll with it, man, until we can’t.”

“Until we can’t,” Evgeni echoes, more to himself than to the boy beside him. In this case, they should end it right there because he’s sure he won’t be able to stand his family despising him for too long. But he doesn’t want to, not yet. Evgeni curses himself. “Then, bye, love,” he mocks and hops out of the Mitsubishi.

Kavinsky takes off.

Once again, Evgeni is found alone in that parking lot.

It's far more lonely in the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: the pumping station Is real you can google it as 'campbell's pond pumping station'. do i think it's unrealistic for it to host parties? yes, but let's ignore that for a second. as always i'm always on [twitter](https://twitter.com/floresetcorvi) and on [tumblr](http://floresetcorvi.co.vu/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i deny the fact that when i kill time,
> 
> time is actually killing me."
> 
>   
> 
> 
> \- GAMALINDA, Eric.

It's seven in the morning and Blake Skovron hasn't slept yet. He holds no hope of doing so, anymore. The hope of lying down and falling asleep has been snatched from him when Nikoleta called him, three hours ago, asking if Evgeni was with him, which he wasn't, and still isn't.

Her worry has easily slipped into Skov’s own brain, and has been creating hundreds of scenarios for what might've happened to his best friend, of which around sixty-eight percent of them ends up with Evgeni dead in a ditch.

Every time his phone chimes with a notification, Skov is startled by the sound. He never leaves his phone on anything other than silent; he simply hates ringtones and the buzzing makes him want to throw his phone through the nearest window.

It's been three hours. He has called Prokopenko so many times he worries his phone company will call to ask what the fuck he thinks he's doing. It's been two hours since Nikoleta’s last contact, and a hour since Skov’s grandmother woke up. “Blake?” she asked. “Is everything all right?”

“Genko’s kinda missing,” he answered and, now, his grandmother is worrying, too.

It's seven in the morning, and Skov doesn't think he'll be going to school. If he does, he'll only sleep through every class he has. He picks his phone and dials again. Again, it falls on voicemail and Skov clicks his tongue. “Where are you, man?” he mutters, looking at the screen displaying Evgeni’s name and number. “Why aren't you picking up?” he asks as he gets up from the couch and heads to the kitchen.

“Why are you up?” his sister, Hailey, asks as she's getting downstairs still in her pyjamas and absentmindedly scratching her head. Her hazel eyes are underlined by smudged makeup and heavy bags.

“Genko’s not home. He's not picking up my calls, either.”

“Maybe he's getting laid. Give him a rest.”

“His  _ mother  _ called me because he was supposed to be home.”

“Kids lie to their parents, Blake.”

“You're the one to talk,” he retorts and Hailey gives him her middle finger. 

Skov rolls his eyes.

His relationship with Hailey Skovron has been wrong ever since their mother passed away, six months ago. She packed her things and left to a board school in Alexandria, to only come back home every now and then. She left Skov with their father, who's been nothing but a mess, and their grandmother, who's a nice person, thank God.

Complicated family business.

“Wish aunt Nikoleta has said something than just ‘Hey, is Genko with you?’,” he says as he munches on a spoonful of cereal.

“Did she really only said that?” Hailey asks, opening the fridge.

“Yep.”

Skov glances at the TV, where SpongeBob is laughing. He checks his phone again, but nothing.  _ Fuck.  _ He stirs the milk in the bowl. There is almost no cereal left. Shit. Where is Genko? His friend has never been the type to spend the night out, to go to parties, to just disappear, Skov is very aware of it, which only makes everything worse.

He thinks about calling Nikoleta, but maybe she’s still asleep, given how she was awake just three hours ago, when she called him. 

“Didn’t he have that thing yesterday?” Hailey asks, absentmindedly meddling with her yogurt. “At the church,” she adds. “What’s the point of that thing, anyway?” she raises her head to meet Skov’s eyes, but he’s already lost in thought.

A church event. With the Kavinskys.

With  _ Joseph _ Kavinsky. Something clicks and Skov’s worrying even more than before.

Taking from the rumours, that boy’s not good to be around. Probably an alcoholic at fifteen and a drug dealer, most of the rumours say Joseph Kavinsky can be found at any party or club, getting shitfaced daily.

Being as close to the Prokopenkos as the Skovrons are, he knows by default that Kavinskys are dangerous. Not only sly cheaters, but also dangerous. Andrei rules their business with a tyrant hand, spilling much more blood than necessary—or so say the rumours and stories.

Skov isn't one to believe blindly in gossips, or to pay much thought to what his family does for a living; never has been. However, he's seen some of the parties Joseph Kavinsky goes to, the smirk as his pills goes from hand to hand, or the laughter as two cars drive towards each other, eager for the crash.

He’s seen it, and it ain’t pretty.

The thought of Evgeni in one of those parties is enough to boil his blood with anger; not because his friend couldn’t go to a substance party, but because he  _ knows _ Evgeni wouldn’t go out of free will.

“Blake?” Hailey calls as she snaps her fingers in front of his eyes. “Blake? Blake, your phone.”

He looks at the device, whose screen is bright displaying Nikoleta’s number. He fumbles to it. “Hey, auntie,” he greets. Nikoleta, on the other hand, only sighs, which must mean they haven’t found him, yet. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” she says. Her voice is tired. “What about you, Blake? Anything?”

“No,” he admits, sadly. “Only voicemail. He’s not answering my texts. Do you think he still has his phone?” he asks, which leads his mind to the scenario in which Evgeni was robbed, and then killed. It all ends up in the thought of Evgeni dead in a ditch and he curses himself for it. “Maybe he lost it,” he offers.

“I don’t think so.”

“Weren’t you at the church thing yesterday, auntie?”

“Yes, Blake, but,” and she trails off for a few seconds before saying something again. “He didn’t leave with us,” she adds. “Genko waited for the Kavinsky boy,” and Nikoleta sighs. Skov tightens his grip around his phone. Shit.  _ Shit shit shit _ .

“I’ll call you if he answers my texts,” he promises.

“Thank you, Blake,” she says. “Bye.”

“Bye, auntie.”

Hailey is looking at him, her hazel eyes filled with expectation. “So?”

He shrugs. “Nothing yet.”

But there is a new piece of information there, and it’s that Evgeni is probably with Kavinsky, which is bad news. Horrible news, honestly, and Skov starts to wish he was old enough to drive, to pick a car and drive to where they might be. God, his sixteenth birthday is still months away. 

 

It’s only half past two in the afternoon when his phone chimes with a text from Evgeni. His heart leap at the sudden ringtone and he pauses his game at the light speed.

_ genko [14:42:18 2013/04/26]: hey _

_ genko [14:42:27 2013/04/26]: sorry for disappearing _

_ genko [14:43:03 2013/04/26]: im fine dont worry  _

_ genko [14:43:21 2013/04/26]: i was with joey _

And it only makes Skov’s blood boil with  _ more _ anger.  _ He’s okay, _ he tells himself.  _ He’s fine,  _ he tries reassuring himself, but to no avail as memories of substance parties flood his mind.

_ You [14:44:57 2013/04/26]: wtf man _

_ You [14:45:02 2013/04/26]: couldnt u just tell us where u were going??? _

_ You [14:45:08 2013/04/26]: spare us the whole worrying thing and shit,  _ to which Evgeni replies with an ‘I’m sorry’ that Skov doesn’t believe in the slightest, so he dialls the number and waits. “Hey, man.”

“Hey, Skov,” Evgeni greets with no enthusiasm in his voice. In fact, his voice is a bit shaky. He might be crying, it won’t be a surprise. 

“Where were you?” he asks, but he thinks that his friend may be tired of answering that, so he says: “Nevermind. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” there’s the sound of sheets ruffling, probably Evgeni flopping on his bed. “Wait. Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“I’m with a headache,” he lies. “Nana allowed me to skip. Wanna grab something?”

“I’m grounded, Skov,” Evgeni answers in a sigh.

“Can I come over, then? I’ll grab something for you in my way.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Okay. See ya,” and he hangs up. 

 

The walk to the Prokopenko house is something Skov already knows by heart. Even though they live in different neighbourhoods, South Orange isn’t far—it’s around a fifteen minutes walk; twenty, with the detour to the convenience store, but still close enough.

However, Skov takes a bit longer to arrive because the first thing he sees when he approaches the convenience store is a white Mitsubishi Evo glistening under the sunlight. Then, he sees Joseph Kavinsky, sitting on the hood, eating a pack of Sour Patch Kids and drowning a bottle of Smirnoff. It burns something in him before he can even realise it’s burning.

Five months ago, he needed therapy for ‘anger management issues’ or something like that. It was not long after his mother’s passing, and his father didn’t know what else to do because his son was constantly getting into fights or breaking things or breaking things while fighting.

Anger has always been a strong emotion to him, and it got worse after his mother died. Then, he just needed an outlet, and he happened to find the unhealthy one. 

The therapy did help him and Skov is, now, relatively better at controlling his anger. As a matter of fact, there are only a few things, now, that can trigger his anger, and he hadn’t expected Joseph Kavinsky to be one of them, but he’s low on sleep and has just spent the previous eleven hours worried to death with his best friend, and it’s all Joseph Kavinsky’s fault.

He doesn’t really notice when his footsteps get heavier. He doesn’t really expect to do anything until he has a hand in Kavinsky’s shirt and is hauling him to the ground with one swift movement. He feels his knuckles hit the soft flesh of the boy’s right cheek. His mouth is dripping with venom when he says: “Stay the fuck away from him,” it’s a growl.

“Aw,” Kavinsky coos, a hand touching his cheek. “Are you jealous?” There are Sour Patch Kids scattered on the floor. The bottle of vodka lies shattered near Skov’s feet. Why would Skov be  _ jealous? _ He can’t help but laugh.

“No,” he answers. “You’re fire hazard,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Don’t drag him down with you. Genko has potential, you know,” and his words are sharp, he’s aware of it. “He went missing last night and I know it’s your fault.”

“How are you so sure of it?” Kavinsky asks, getting up. He rubs the nape of his neck. “How can you know it wasn’t his own choice?”

“Genko wouldn’t disappear. It’s not like him.”

“Then, get to know your friend better,” he snarls.

“You’re bad influence,” Skov replies.

“I’m  _ fun _ ,” Kavinsky corrects. “There’s a difference there.”

Kavinsky is saying things that Skov doesn’t quite process because they don’t matter. He doesn’t  _ care _ about the boy, about whatever shit he’s been doing last night. He only cares about Evgeni. “Where did you take him?”

It’s Kavinsky’s turn to laugh. “He’s quite grown, dude. Ask him yourself,” he pats the dust off his pants and rolls his shoulders. Before Skov can react, a fist meets his stomach and he hunches forward, the dull pain already spreading through his torso. “Don’t fucking haul me to the ground again,” Kavinsky warns, leaning in and hissing into his ear. His voice is low when he speaks again: “Or you’ll fucking regret it.”

“Then, stay the fuck away from my friend,” Skov warns, too. He knows the pain is showing through his voice, but tries his best to keep it as threatening as he can. “Or you’ll fucking regret it,” he repeats Kavinsky’s words before walking into the convenience store. The cashier is staring at him as if he’s an alien. “The fuck you staring at?” he snarls, but regrets it almost immediately; the girl is not at fault.

_ Breathe, Skov. Breathe, _ he tells himself. His hands are shaking. He flexes his fingers just to be sure they still work. They do.  _ Breathe, _ he tells himself again, but it’s pointless; of course he’s breathing, what kind of stupid way of calming himself is that? He focus on reading the names on the packages and associating them with countries capitals.

It gives his mind something else to focus on.

It helps.

He’s at the third shelf when his hands stop shaking and his breath is even again. Skov manages to grab a bottle of orange soda, a bag of chips, a carton of ice cream and a package of cookie dough. He pays for it and resumes his walking to the Prokopenko household.

The white Mitsubishi Evo isn’t in the parking lot anymore.

 

Evgeni’s room is on the second floor, at the back. Skov already broke into it enough times to be familiar with the process. He has the feeling Nikoleta  _ knows _ about his break-ins and simply doesn’t do anything about it because she doesn’t mind. 

He leaves the plastic bags by the veranda, under the dining room window, and then climbs the plaster column. God, he’s getting too old for that shit. Skov hoists himself upwards, sits on the roof and knocks on Evgeni’s window.

“You could’ve used the front door,” he says as he opens the window. “No one’s home.”

“Then, you could’ve slipped out to meet me,” Skov replies as he slides inside. His body would’ve appreciated if he’d gone in through the front door. The feeling from Kavinsky’s punch is still there, more of a ghost than a proper pain.

“And risk not being here when someone arrives?” Evgeni lets out a weak chuckle. “Nah, dude.”

Evgeni’s alive. He’s well. There aren’t any bruises visible. He’s okay. Regardless of  _ where _ he went last night, he’s okay and right there in front of Skov, which he feels thankful for. Then, the thought of Kavinsky floods his mind and he’s angry again.  _ Stop _ , he censors himself before his fingers can curl and turn his his hand into a fist. “The bag is under the window, as always,” Evgeni nods and goes grab it.

“The fuck you bought cookie dough for?” he shouts as he’s climbing the stairs.

“I wanted to,” he shouts back, but Evgeni is already at the door and groans at the loud voice. “Sorry. Hungover?”

“Remind me not to ever drink again.”

“You know that never works, right?” he asks, unscrewing the cap and drinking the orange soda before passing it to Evgeni. “But sure, I’ll remind you,” they sit across each other, Skov on the bed and Evgeni on the computer chair, spinning it from time to time.

A few moments pass in silence. Skov just wants to  _ ask _ , to know what happened last night, why was Evgeni with Kavinsky, why did he drink if he doesn’t even like it—he just wants answers, but he doesn’t want to push, so they pass the first bottle of soda between them until it’s almost over.

Skov stares at the band posters hanging from Prokopenko’s wall—The Smiths, Pink Floyd, Nirvana, Fall Out Boy, there’s even Simple Plan and Nickelback there, which makes Skov judges his friend’s taste in music. Once he gets bored with the posters, he looks at the corkboard hanging from the wall and the pictures pinned to it. There are pictures of his family, of Skov, of random things, of himself—it’s a true collage of Evgeni’s life.

“How do you know a choice is worth making?” Evgeni asks, looking at his computer screen. It’s open on his Twitter page. 

“You weight down the pros and cons?” he offers as he chews on a few chips. “I dunno. If you feel it’s worth the risk, then go for it,” they both muse about that answer. “Why?” Evgeni shakes his head and he makes grabby hands for the bag of chips, which Skov takes from his reach just to be annoying. “You don’t get to throw cryptic questions like that and just ask for snacks.”

“Yes, I do,” Evgeni replies. “C’mon, Skov.”

“Then, tell me what the hell you were talking about.”

“There’s this thing,” he starts slowly as he fidgets with the end of his hideous belt. Skov already tried to throw it away twice. “I don’t know if it’s a  _ thing _ or how long it’ll last, but,” he trails off. “You know I have this crush on Joey, right?”

“Who?” Skov asks despite knowing very well who Evgeni’s talking about because the boy spent, literally, and he counted, nine days talking non-stop about his eyes and lips and face in general. What the fuck is wrong with his best friend, Skov still doesn’t know.

“Kavinsky,” he clarifies. “Anyway, so,” he scratches the nape of his neck before sighing in frustration. “Oh, c’mon just give me the bag,” he whines.

“Tell me first, then.”

He whines some more, but sees that Skov won’t drop it, so he sighs again. “Okay. Well, uh, yesterday I kind of said it’d be fun to pretend to be dating as a joke, you know,”  _ what the fuck, _ Skov wonders as Evgeni keeps saying: “I don’t know, okay? It was dumb, I know. But I have this crush on him and—I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do know. Now, keep going or no chips for you.”

“Now, we have this  _ thing _ —I think it’s a thing—going on and I don't know for how long it’ll last. Argh,” he groans and lets his head fall on his knees, that have been pulled up against his chest a while ago as he tried to explain whatever shit he did last night. 

“You’re fake dating Joseph Kavinsky?” Skov asks because he can’t wrap his head around it. Out of the countless scenarios his paranoid, anxious mind came up with, none was close to  _ this. _

“No. I don’t know, Skov, it—argh. It’s complicated? It was supposed to be a joke, but he said to keep it up, so I don't know what's going on anymore.”

“Okay, then you're  _ dating  _ Joseph Kavinsky? Oh my God, I can't believe I punched your boyfriend,” he doesn't regret it, though.

“We're not  _ dating _ . God, no. It's just messing around, I guess, and—wait, you did what?” Evgeni's eyes widen and Skov doesn't know if he wants to roll his eyes or laugh or groan, or all of these.

“I was angry,” he shrugs, putting down the bag of chips so he can grab a handful. Evgeni snatches it from his hands with a triumphant ‘A-ha!’

“You can't just  _ punch _ people just because you're angry, Skov.”

“That's exactly what you do when you're angry,” he counters, munching on his chips. “And he deserved it.”

“Oh, did he?” Evgeni feignes to believe. “Tell me about it.”

“Okay, maybe he didn't  _ actively _ deserve it. But, listen, you were gone for hours and I spent said hours worrying and your mom told me you left the church-thing with him, so when I went to the convenience store and he was  _ there _ , I…” Skov trails off, not having a proper excuse for hauling Kavinsky to the ground and punching his face. 

Evgeni sighs. “Sorry,” he ducks his head even lower. “I was just… angry. At my family, and he asked me to go out with him. I didn't want to talk with my family about anything, so I said okay. Just to, you know, stall.”

“Why didn't you at least tell me? How could you not tell anyone? What if something happened and no one knew where you were?”

“Nikolay did,” he shrugs and Skov feels betrayed. “Don't look at me like that, bro. You can't keep a secret for shit; I knew you'd snitch me.”

That's true. If he knew and Nikoleta called, he wouldn't have the heart to lie to her, tell her he didn't know where her son was while she was worried sick about him. “Couldn't you have called earlier?”

“My phone died. We slept and he dropped me off when we woke up.”

“You had sex with Joseph Kavinsky?”

Evgeni laughs a genuine laughter. “Oh god, no!” he tries to grasp for air, but ends up choking, which makes Skov laugh, too, until they're both laughing, clutching their bellies and leaning backwards, bag of chips forgotten on the floor. “I wish I had, but no, Skov. I meant literal sleep.”

“Gross,” he answers to the part Evgeni admits to want to have sex with Kavinsky. His eyes burns at the mental image and he groans. “Where did he take you?” he asks in a small voice, mostly out of worry than sheer interest.

“The pumping station near Campbells Pond,” and Skov’s blood goes cold and still in his veins.  _ A fucking substance party, _ his brain supplies and he can't keep his fingers from forming a fist. “Nothing happened, okay? I just got drunk and watched things burn. I didn't take any of his pills or any drug, for the matter,” it helps to put Skov at ease. “Why do people  _ go _ to these things?”

Skov shrugs. He's gone to a few before. Just two weeks ago, he was getting high as a kite at one; not that he takes pride in it. It's just that, sometimes, his grandmother loves him, and Hailey is barely home, and his mother is dead, and his father is too compliant—it's all too much and Skov feels the need to run, to find outlets for his anger. 

And he finds them at substance parties, at the crash of cars and swing of arm as he throws a molotov cocktail into the air, at the deafening  EDM blasting from the stereos, at the senseless brawls he gets himself into when it's too bad, at the brief numbness the high give him. He stays away from things like coke and heroin and meth, but aside from it, he's open to anything.

He always hates himself for it.

“Sometimes, there's nothing better to do,” he offers as an answer, to which Evgeni simply rolls his eye, clearly not buying that as an excuse to whatever he's seen at the substance party. “I can't believe I missed your drunk ass. What kind of drunk are you?”

“Sleepy,” he answers right off the bat. “God, I just wanted to  _ sleep _ . I still don't know how I managed to stay awake while Joey was getting high.”

“Are you going to another one of those?” he asks because the image of Evgeni outlined by the flames of molotov cocktails is haunting him for the past minutes.

“I don't know,” Evgeni says as he opens the carton of ice cream. It's already starting to melt at the edges. “I guess not. It's not that fun when the only person you know it's getting drugged out of their mind,” he shrugs, burying his spoon into the desert. “But I can give it another try, maybe.”

This is not what Skov wanted to hear, but he nods anyway, and they fall in a comfortable silence, passing the carton of ice cream between them. It's a few minutes before Evgeni speaks again. “Did he seem weird to you?” he asks as he hands Skov the ice cream. “Joey, I mean,” he clarifies.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “He  _ is _ weird, looking like an edgy twink and all of that,” which earns him a few laughters from Evgeni. “I don’t know what’s his normal, so,” he ends that sentence with a shrug.

“He was weird when he went back to pick me up,” Prokopenko notes, sounding a bit distant. “Angry, I guess. I don’t know. He was just…”

“Weird?” Skov offers, a mocking twist to his mouth that makes his friend rolls his eye. “You already said it.” 

“He was wearing sunglasses and it was, like, two in the morning. When he took it off, he had this ugly bruise around his eye and…” he trails off, lost in thoughts. “He didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Did you expect something else? From  _ him? _ ” Skov asks. Everyone knows not to expect anything but drugs or sex from Joseph Kavinsky. Maybe not even his mother expects something from him. It’s harsh, he knows it, but he does think it’s also the truth. “Don’t you hear rumours?”

Evgeni shrugs. “I don’t really care about gossip. You know that.”

“Yeah, okay, but—you know,” he gestures vaguely. “Haven’t you heard them? They all say he’s a drug dealer, that he’s dangerous and stuff like that.”

“He’s fifteen, Skov.”

“So? What does that change?” his fingers are starting to freeze at the tips as he holds the ice cream carton.

Evgeni shakes his head. “He’s not dangerous.”

“He kidnapped you.”

“I  _ went _ with him. Out of free will, okay?” he snaps, taking the carton of ice cream from Skov’s hand. “I’m not a kid, Skov.”

And Skov knows it. He does, really. God, he knows he’s younger than Evgeni, but it always feels like ten years ago. It always feels like standing up against Syd From Third Grade because he wanted to take Evgeni’s plush turtle. It always feels like three years ago, when Evgeni ended up in the hospital after being hit by a car that didn’t see the thirteen-years-old riding his bike.

He knows Evgeni has been there for him just the same, like after his mother’s passing, or a earlier that year, when Skov almost overdosed on  LSD and alcohol. They both have each other’s back, he knows it. He’s aware that is senseless to feel that he needs to  _ protect _ Evgeni, but after losing his mother and almost losing his best friend, Blake Skovron always feels the need to protect what he loves.

It’s an instinct as quick to him as his anger. There’s not much he can do about it. 

“I can’t help it if you don’t wanna hear that your hookup is a trash bag.”

“He’s not my hookup,” Evgeni cuts. “He’s not my anything, so  _ chill _ .”

The silence they fall into is unbearable, making Skov’s fingers search for anything to toy with and his stomach churn. Suddenly, the pain from Kavinsky’s punch hurts as if brand new.  _ Fuck _ , he curses. He really wasn’t planning on fighting Evgeni.  _ Shit.  _ “You know I’m right,” he mutters because his stupid brain can force his lips to form the sentence ‘I’m sorry’.

“Maybe you’re not.”

“It’s not like you know him that well.”

“It’s not like you’re any different in that case,” Evgeni’s replies have always been quick. He has this wit to himself that Skov is always torn between finding amazing and hating it, when it’s directed at him. The boy sighs and closes his eyes. “Give him a chance, will you? I mean, it’s not like you two are gonna have to socialize much, but try to be civil to him when you do, okay?”

“Can’t promise anything.”

“Skov.”

“All right, all right,” he agrees, admitting defeat. He can manage that, despite his distaste for Joseph Kavinsky. He manages to be somewhat civil to him at school. Thinking about school takes his mind to a topic he was meaning to ask Evgeni for a few days, but ended up forgetting. “Hey, would you mind sharing your house?”

“What?” Evgeni asks because Skov’s question has been out of blue.

“Your house at Henrietta. Nana wants to enroll me in that Aglionby hellhole,” he comments. It feels ridiculous to join a board school in his second year of high school, but he brushes it aside. “Your mom talks too much with nana,” he mumbles.

“Aglionby is not that bad,” Evgeni shrugs. “You’ll have to wear a tie everyday, though.”

“I hate ties!” Skov whines. He always feels choked by them, like a noose around his neck. Well, it  _ is _ a noose around his neck, but it feels like a leash or a hanging man’s rope, and Skov hates it. He loves spending his money on expensive suits and expensive clothes in general, but ties are his mortal enemies. 

Evgeni chuckles. “Yeah, I have room for you. I mean, you  _ already _ claimed one of the rooms to yourself, anyway.”

“But this will be me living with you twenty-four hours a day, five days per week. Are you sure you’re ready?”

“God, never,” he huffs a laugh. “But the Aglionby housing system sucks and I’m feeling charitable.”

“Aren’t you an angel, Proko?”

“I sure am, Skov.”

 

* * *

 

His Friday, after he’s back at his own place, goes rather ordinarily. He spends time watching Discovery Home & Health with his grandmother, who’s mostly focused on her crochet towel than on the  TV  in front of her. By Saturday night, he decides against finding a substance party to get wasted at, but complies with going to a club when his mind won’t shut up.

Which is why, now, he’s allowing the loud music to envelope around him, pounding against his eardrums. God, he hates himself, Skov thinks as he drowns his bottle of Eisenbahn. But he’s past caring for that; has been for the past months, since he got so wasted in  LSD that he ended up in the hospital.

Skov was sure that was going to be his end, the moment in which his dad, Ivo Skovron, would finally get angry and shout at him, or do  _ anything _ . But the man only cried, asking his son why would he do that. Ivo was a mess since his wife passed away. Skov was not much different. He’s not sure how Hailey’s been holding up, but he hopes she’s not getting wasted just to bear the lonely nights.

Jesus, he’s pathetic, he knows, but there’s this cute girl grinding against him and he’s getting tipsy, so maybe it doesn’t matter for now. He grabs her waist and pulls her closer. She seems older, maybe the legal age to be in a club. He wonders if she doesn’t mind making out with a fifteen years old; he wonders if it’d turn her off and drive her away. Why is he even letting his mind go astray like that?

She presses closer and she smells of cheap vodka and grape soda, which Skov thinks it’s an odd mixture for an older person to drink, but maybe even legal adults like this kind of cheap cocktails teenagers drink just to feel like breaking some rules and being edgy. Maybe. She presses herself against him once again and Skov brings her into a kiss by holding the nape of her neck.

She tastes like grape soda, too, and her tongue sliding in between his lips isn’t enough to take his mind away from his self-hatred and he sighs. 

Skov hopes she thinks it means something else.

 

He’s not entirely sure of when he leaves the club, but it's already morning. He shoves his hands inside the pocket of his jeans and keeps walking.

Skov’s best efforts not to be noticed are revealed to be pointless since his father is awake. Ivo Skovron startles with the sound of the door creaking open and looks lost and hollow. Skov sighs. It’s how his father has been looked like ever since his wife passed away.

Lost and hollow and a horrible father who doesn’t pay attention. Ivo hasn’t done much but cried. No matter if he’s tired or angry or sad, he’s always crying. Maybe he’ll cry himself dry and be whisked away by the wind.

“Hey, dad,” Skov greets in a small voice. His father’s eyes are red and puffy. 

“Hello, Blake,” he answers and that’s it. He doesn’t ask why his younger son is sneaking inside his own home at this early hour. He doesn’t notice the awkward silence or Skov’s fidgety fingers.

He never notices anything.

_ Just ask it already, _ he thinks and takes a deep breath. “I wanna change schools,” he says.

“Sorry?” Ivo breathes. Not in a rude way; just in a genuinely confused tone. “Why?”

“Genko said Aglionby is a very good school. And he already agreed with letting me stay with him,” which isn’t a  _ lie. _ The lie is what he told Evgeni hours ago, about it being his grandmother’s wish. It’s no one’s but Skov’s own. He can’t stand his home, anymore.

_ What will your father do, _ he wonders.  _ What about nana, _ he thinks. These questions are drowned out by his urge to disappear from this place.

“I thought it’d be good if you could transfer me to Aglionby,” he tries. “It’d be good for my future, you know,” and Skov holds back a mocking laugh. As if either he or his father  _ care _ about Blake Skovron’s future.

“Sure, Blake,” Ivo answers. As always, his mind seems to be far away. “Sure. We’ll do it when this school year ends.”

“Thanks, dad,” he says and rushes out of the living room and upstairs.

It went easier than expected, but what was Skov to expect from his father? He knows what he  _ wanted _ to happen. Any reaction would’ve been good enough. As always, Skov knows better than to expect anything but complacence from his father.

He groans and flops onto his bed.

Apparently, he’ll be in a new school in a couple of months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo this was kind of skov's introdutory chapter??? as i said the fic will have varying povs, even though most of them are kavinsky's. hope you liked it!! i'm working on trying to finish the second part as i'm still posting rusty prince, but since college is starting shortly, i can't guarantee anything. please do say what you've been thinking about the fic so far!! thank you for reading!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "there is something terribly wrong with his face—  
>  empty, restless, one side older than the other"
> 
> \- SIKEN, Richard.

He fixes his gaze on the I-95S stretching before of him. 

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. 

Everything in his body throbs—his head, from the hangover; his face, from the bruises; his backs, from being hauled to the floor; his shoulders, from bad sleeping positions; his core, from having such a horrible father; his knuckles from punching Skov.

Kavinsky glances at the rearview mirror and is thankful that part of the purple and green and yellow stains on his skin are hidden behind the white sunglasses.

What an amazing surprise it was to arrive home and find Andrei Kavinsky waiting by the front door. What an amazing decision Monika made when she texted her husband, telling him what their son pulled at the party. What an amazing turn of events it was, to find out her husband was back in town.

Andrei punched and cursed at him. Andrei called him a ‘fag’, which wasn’t that much of a surprise, really. Andrei asked if he liked it when Evgeni gives it to him as he laid a kick in his son’s ribcage. Violence is familiar to Kavinsky, it is, but this doesn’t mean it hurts any less. God, his body is sore.

Andrei was still shouting at him when Evgeni texted. He threw the phone against the wall, and it was a miracle it didn’t break. The screen is destroyed, yes, but it still works, which is impressive. Andrei words were simply coming in and out of his head, barely making themselves known. It’s hard to focus while being beaten.

Then, there was fucking Skovron, coming out of nowhere and throwing him on the ground, talking shit about things he doesn’t even know, accusing him of  _ kidnapping _ Evgeni, which must be a goddamn joke because Kavinsky never forced Prokopenko to go anywhere. 

He looks at the I-95S stretching before him and steps down on the accelerator. 

The Mitsubishi roars.

Since going out yesterday afternoon, Kavinsky is still to go back to his house, but he figures he’s not doing that, which is why he’s driving on the interstate, going God knows where. As long as he finds something to do, as long as he stays away from Andrei, it’s fine. His phone is long out of battery, which is probably annoying his mother as she tries to reach out for him. He doesn't care; not when she's the reason he has bruises staining his skin. If Monika hasn't opened her mouth, maybe he would've been able to go through the night without a punch of his father.

But she couldn't keep her mouth shut, could she? She needed to make a scene, telling Andrei about what happened at the church, which earned her son a bruise on the face, a few on the ribcage, and a lot of cursing.  _ Are you a fucking fag now, Joseph _ , Andrei asked as he kicked him. If anything, Andrei’s violence only made his son more adamant in keeping up the scam, just to piss them off even more.

If Andrei thinks he’ll tame his son through a beating, he’ll be gladly proven wrong, no matter how much the sight of his father makes him flinch.

_ Stay the fuck away from him, _ he remembers Skov’s words and he has to laugh.  _ You’re fire hazard, _ and it’s nothing Kavinsky doesn’t already know. He’s very aware of it, honestly. He thinks of it almost every day; he’s thinking of it right now as he drives somewhere. 

How is he supposed to be something else, having grown up the way he did—and still does, seeing he’s still fifteen? How is it to be any different given whose child he is and his unhealthy hobbies?

However, it’s one thing when  _ he _ tells himself that, and another one when a random dude comes out of nowhere, hauls him to the ground and spits the words to his face. Kavinsky can talk shit about himself, tell himself he’s a good for nothing kind of guy. Skovron can’t because he’s an asshole who knows nothing of Kavinsky.

_ You’re fire hazard, _ and the Mitsubishi roars again as he pushes down the accelerator, trying to drown out his thoughts, to take his mind from the pain in his body, to distance himself from Millburn, from New Jersey, but the gas light shines bright and he pulls over at a gas station. 

It’s pointless, he thinks as gasoline fills the car’s tank, to run away. He will, eventually, have to go back, and just to remember Andrei’s face is enough to make his stomach churn and his bruises burn. 

He looks around him and find a red Golf approaching.  _ Shit. _

After Friday, the last thing he needs is Evgeni Prokopenko with his soft voice, huge eyes and annoying curiosity.  _ What happened to you _ , he asked and, God, it’s  _ so _ annoying. Who the fuck does he think he is, to think he can make anything better? The damage is done and  _ talking _ won’t make a difference.

The red Golf is approaching.

It can be anyone, really. It’s not as if Evgeni’s car is something unusual to find roaming about. But the car is approaching and Kavinsky’s heart races and his fists clench because he just  _ can’t _ deal with questions and whatever twisted kind of curiosity Evgeni may have. Why the fuck would he want to know what happened to Kavinsky’s face? Andrei happened, and it was none of the his business.

The car inches closer until it drives past the gas station and Kavinsky can breathe again.

He buys a few more bottles of vodka and beer and whiskey, two packages of Sour Patch Kids, a crate of Pepsi Twist, and shoves it in the trunk with the backpack with his pills and the dream gun, and the duffel bag with clothes that he keeps in there in case he needs to run. How fucked up is that?

He closes the trunk with a bit too much more strength than necessary. Then, he sees the red Golf again parked by the coasting. 

_ Fucking hell, _ he groans internally as he climbs inside his Mitsubishi. Kavinsky tries to drive past the Golf, but as soon as he passes it, it starts and drives behind him. Fate must really love him because Evgeni Prokopenko is on the driver seat, with his huge eyes and freckled face. “Hey, Joey” he calls when he reaches the Mitsubishi and Kavinsky wonders why did he allow the boy to call him that.

“Not in the fucking mood, Genko,” he warns and steps down on the accelerator. Evgeni does the same and Kavinsky rolls his eyes. He muses about how the extra bruises must look for Prokopenko.

“I haven’t seen you around since the party.”

“It was the point,” he snarls. “Now, fuck off,” again, he makes the car roar underneath his feet. Evgeni is quick to follow. “Drop it,” he warns once again and takes off. The road is mostly empty, which means he can easily go as fast as he wishes.

Apparently, Prokopenko takes his words as a challenge because he’s racing right behind him, and keeps doing so for over an hour. They’re almost reaching Baltimore when Kavinsky grows tired of the bullshit and pulls over the coasting. He wants a drink, something to keep the shaking from his hands and the knot from his throat. He doesn’t want to hear Evgeni’s questions, doesn’t want to answer them. 

He needs a drink. 

Kavinsky hops out of his Mitsubishi and pops open the trunk, sitting at the edge and grabbing a bottle of beer. He watches as Prokopenko climbs out of his Golf and walks towards him. “I said I’m not in the fucking mood,” he growls behind the bottle.

Evgeni stops a few steps away from the car. There’s a smirk playing on his lips and Kavinsky rolls his eyes behind the sunglasses. “I thought you didn’t drive while drunk,” he dodges.

“I’m not drunk,” Kavinsky shoots back. It takes a lot more than beer to get him wasted to the point of being unable to drive. “You’re the lightweight in this relationship, Genko.” His hands are shaking and it’s hard to breathe. “Fuck off,” he says because Kavinsky knows he won’t stand waiting for Evgeni to ask. “It’s none of your business.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“You were going to.”

“Oh, are you a psychic now, Joey?” Kavinsky grins.  _ Wrong magical lane, dude, _ he thinks, but doesn’t say anything, simply keeps drinking his beer. It’s lukewarm. He should buy a cooler. “Where were you going?”

“None of your business,” he answers as he doesn’t have anything better to say. He doesn’t know where he was going. “What about you?”

“Back to Virginia,” he shrugs. Oh right, Evgeni goes to that stupid boarding school. Ag-something. Monika talked about enrolling him a few times, but maybe she gave up on wasting even more money on his education. She knows he doesn’t care.

Virginia. Virginia is six hours away from New Jersey, more than 480 kilometers away. 

Suddenly, Virginia sounds like a plan. 

“I’m coming with you,” he announces because asking will make room for more questions.

 

Henrietta, Virginia, is a small, boring town, he decides as he follows Evgeni’s Golf inside his garage. Kavinsky wonders why Prokopenko didn’t ask anything regarding his face or his decision, but doesn’t complain as he parks his Mitsubishi. He questions how can anyone be so chill about a nearly stranger crashing at your place without previously announcing so, but remains quiet as he walks inside.

“Why a house so big if you live alone?” is the question he chooses to ask.

Evgeni shrugs. “Skov crashes here, sometimes,” but it doesn’t explain why the house fits around six people. “Also, it was my family’s. We used to live here before we moved to South Orange, after Petar was born,” which explains the size. “Mom gave it to me when I started high school, since I was gonna go to Aglionby. Dimitar went before me and Petar will go after,” Evgeni dumps his bags on the couch. “It’s tradition.”

“Just like St. Mark.”

“Just like it,” he echoes. “Tradition is important to my family,” he shrugs. “That’s why none of us is named with American names or why I need to go to church and St. Mark, or why I go to Aglionby and my sisters go to Gladiola,” he gives a half smile. “Tradition.”

Kavinsky scoffs. The only tradition that runs in his family is violence, alcoholism and drug abuse, nothing to brag about, really.

Evgeni walks to the kitchen and comes back holding a glass of water. “Speaking of school,” he starts, “tomorrow’s Monday. You shouldn’t be over six hours away from Millburn.”

“Whatever,” because it doesn’t matter to him. Despite everything, his attendance is perfect because Monika won’t let him miss classes. Also, it’s not like he cares enough about school to feel bad about his record. “When do you need me out?” 

“I don’t, really. Like I said, aside from Skov, I live alone,” he answers after taking a sip from his glass of water. “Why did you come, though?” he asks and it’s a reasonable question, except Kavinsky doesn’t want to answer it. He doesn’t want to say his father’s name or to say anything regarding him.

“I didn’t have anything better to do,” he lies.

“Now, that’s hardly believable, you know?”

“Nothing I can do about that, dude,” he says. It doesn’t matter whether or not Evgeni believes him, as long as he gets to stay away from his father, it’s enough. Prokopenko’s eyes are on him, he can feel it, but Kavinsky refuses to meet them, deciding to stare at his Adidas instead. 

“The first room to the right is Skov’s. You can get the other one,” he says, finally. “There are another two rooms upstairs, too. Your pick,” he falls on the couch and turns on the  TV . “Unless you wanna share a room,” and he has the nerve to  _ wink _ at him, which makes Kavinsky laugh. “My bedroom is upstairs. The one in the middle. You can knock if you need anything.”

“Yeah,” he says.  _ I guess, _ he thinks,  _ this is where people say ‘thank you’, _ but it’s alien to him. It’s hard to push out those words, which is stupid, but his lips won’t curl around the vowels and his throat won’t make any sound. Kavinsky stares at his hands and wonders why they’re always shaking. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, instead.

Evgeni cranes his neck from where he’s sitting on the couch and looks at him with those huge, bambi brown eyes of his. “I’m a great boyfriend,” he mocks with a pretentious smile playing on his lips and Kavinsky rolls his eyes, but it’s not out of annoyance this time; he has a smile of his own playing on his lips, as well.

He sends a kiss towards Evgeni and walks to the other room. It’s at the end of the hallway and it’s almost as big as his bedroom back in New Jersey. Kavinsky throws his duffel bag on the ground and finally turns his phone on.

There are a few missed call from Monika, some people asking for pills, some other still talking about the party, a few invitations and three hookup opportunities that Kavinsky ignores. He types an answer to those wanting pills, saying he’s out of Jersey. Then, he declines the invitations for the same reason and texts something generic to those talking about the party. He clicks through the snapchats flooding his phone, replies to a few. He checks his Facebook and Instagram feed.

Then, he reads his mother’s text:  _ Where are you? Come home  _ and a  _ Your father is angry, _ to which Kavinsky replies with a  _ when isn’t he _ . He ignores when she texts again and buries his face into the pillow. 

It smells of lavender softener.

Evgeni Prokopenko is one weird guy.

 

* * *

 

Monika’s calls are having less and less times between each other by the time the sun sets and Kavinsky is comfortably slouched on the couch, talking idly while watching Evgeni playing  _ Call of Duty. _ He hates  FPS games, or any first-person game, for the matter. “You’ll die again,” he comments, taking a bite of the pizza. 

“I won’t,” Evgeni answers a few seconds later, too absorbed in his game to answer quickly. He shoots and lands a headshot. “See?” he says, but as soon as his eyes leave the screen, some asshole shoots him dead. “Oh c’mon.”

“You kinda suck at this game,” he says just to be a prick as Evgeni respawns. It takes less than five minutes for him to be shot dead again. “You just proved my point, dude,” he laughs.

“Shut up or I’ll kick you out,” he threatens.

“What happened with being a good boyfriend?” Kavinsky asks as the boy crouches behind a truck and lands a few shots, killing some other player.

“You’re not supporting me, so you became the bad boyfriend,” he says and walks inside a building. He almost dies, but manages to dodge. He throws a grenade, which harms his energy bar just as much. Kavinsky’s phone lights up with a call again. “Aren’t you picking it up?” he asks after killing the enemy.

“Nah,” he answers and opens the can of Pepsi Twist. “Don’t wanna hear her being a bitch.”

“You shouldn’t call your mom a bitch.”

“You shouldn’t tell me what to do, Genko,” he says, lazily. “Also, she should stop being a bitch, then.”

“She’s just worried,” Evgeni shrugs.

Maybe in his perfect family, worrying is the normal, the thing that often happens. Maybe for Evgeni, it’s natural for mothers to worry about their sons. But Kavinsky isn’t him, and his mother is not  _ worried. _ One out of two options, her calls are either due to her being pissed because if her son doesn’t show up before her husband does, she’ll have to deal with the mess, or because she’s out of drugs and needs more.

_ You’re fire hazard,  _ he hears as Skov’s words decides to haunt him.  _ That’s why she wants to keep a close eye on you, _ his mind adds and Kavinsky’s good mood is gone.

“Joey?” Evgeni calls. He died again and the screen is loading as his character respawns. His voice sounds a bit distant even though he’s only a few steps away, sitting on the other couch. Kavinsky’s phone has gone quiet.

“You respawned,” he says, instead, and chugs the Pepsi Twist. He suddenly, desperately, wishes it was alcohol. The wish grows bigger until it’s unbearable, a tug at the bottom of his stomach and another at the back of his mind, and Kavinsky just wants the bottle in his hand and the burning taste on his tongue. He wants to get drunk, he wants the pressure at the side of his head and the buzzing sound against his ears.

“Yeah, I did,” Evgeni mutters and turns his attention back to the game.

Evgeni Prokopenko, Kavinsky decides, is one weird guy. He’s this sixteen years old, 180-something centimeters tall boy with wide ears and bambi eyes. No sixteen years old boy should be like that, he’s sure of it. Also, he has this annoying curiosity about himself and he speaks softly. 

It’s weird.

It’s weird how the first thing he suggests as a mean to piss off their families is to fake date, or how he allows Kavinsky to crash at his place for however long he wishes, or how he keeps playing  _ Call of Duty  _ despite being horrible at it, or how he was worried about Kavinsky coming out by fake dating him.

Weird. Very weird.

It’s also weird how he's staring intently at him with those brown eyes. Kavinsky has heard a lot of comparisons between blue or green or grey or hazel eyes and the sea, or jewels, or storms, or honey. But he hasn’t heard one for brown eyes, which is why he’s left just staring back, trying to compare Evgeni’s orbs to something, but it’s to no avail. 

So very weird.

“Are we in a staring contest?” Prokopenko asks, dissipating the tension between them. Kavinsky laughs. “If we are, I gotta warn you that you’ll lose because I’m awesome at staring contests.”

“Like you’re awesome at  _ Call of Duty _ ?”

“I never said I was awesome at  _ Call of Duty, _ ” he shrugs as he gets up and retrieves another controller. He tosses it towards Kavinsky. “But I  _ am _ awesome at  _ Ninja Storm _ and I’m about to kick your ass.”

 

Evgeni turns out to be, indeed, awesome at  _ Naruto Shippuden: Ultimate Ninja Storm 3 _ , which is annoying. They set as basic rules not to pick characters such as Deidara or Tenten or Temari, since it’s simply staying back and pressing X. 

It’s already getting annoying the amount of times Kavinsky is hearing Ino’s voice since Evgeni just won’t pick another character. “C’mon, man, will you really just play with her?”

“Yes,” he answers as he loads his chakra before throwing explosive flower petals at poor Gaara. “You’re just whining because you’re losing.”

“You’re not that far ahead,” Kavinsky counters as he traps Ino inside a sand cocoon. “You’re two wins ahead of me.”

“I’m still winning, Joey,” after a twenty-hits combo, Gaara falls to his knees, defeated, and Ino and the support characters cheer their victory. “Three ahead of you,” Evgeni has a mocking smile and it’s weird how Kavinsky takes two heartbeats too long before tearing his gaze away.

Weird.

“New rule: stop picking Ino. Her voice is already annoying me.”

“Yeah, sure. That’s totally why,” Evgeni says, but picks Sasori instead.

“I fucking hate you,” Kavinsky mutters when he loses the next three rounds.

“Awn,” he coos. “I love you, too, baby,” and Evgeni stretches from his seat to playfully pat his knees. “Don’t be a sore loser, Joey. I told you I’m awesome at  _ Ninja Storm, _ ” he shrugs.

“You’re cheating.”

“Or,” Evgeni cocks his head, “you’re just bad at videogames.”

“First of all, I’m great at  GTA ,” he counters. “Second, you’re cheating. I don’t know how, but you are.”

“Sore loser,” Evgeni laughs as he gets up to get a glass of orange juice from the fridge. Kavinsky’s phone lights up again and he groans. “Why don’t you answer her?”

“I don’t wanna talk to her.”

“She must be worried.”

“She’s not your mom,” Kavinsky replies a bit too harshly. Monika isn’t worried, and it pisses him off that Evgeni thinks so. It’s unreasonable, he’s aware of it, but it pisses him off because it just means that Prokopenko has a mother who  _ cares _ about him, and maybe Kavinsky envies that. “Drop it.”

If Evgeni wants to protest, he decides against it, and walks back to the living room. This time, he sits on the same couch and Kavinsky doesn’t know what to make of that information. “Are you done having your ass beaten?” he asks, instead.

“Hell no.”

“Kinky,” Evgeni notes and laughs. Kavinsky laughs, too, and they spend the night playing video games. He manages to win a few rounds, but by the time they call it a day, Prokopenko is still six wins ahead. “I told you,” he says. “I’m awesome at  _ Ninja Storm _ ,” and the cocky smile is there, a curl tugging at the left corner of his lips, bringing it up just enough to flash a couple of white teeth. They’re a bit crooked, Kavinsky notices. It’s weird how he looks enough to notice something.

Again, his phone lights up. He turns it off and shoves it in the pocket of his sweatpants. Then, Evgeni’s phone lights up and he answers it within seconds. “Hello, mama.”

Kavinsky hates hearing other people talking on the phone, always has. Not because it sounds like invading someone’s privacy, but because he can never know what is going on, not fully. He only hears half the story and it makes him anxious.

So he walks to the kitchen and gives in to the craving he’s been feeling for the past hours. He produces a bottle of beer from the fridge and drinks from it, welcoming the bitter taste and the cold spreading in his mouth, down his throat. He leans against the marble counter and a stinging pain runs through his body. 

Kavinsky groans.

He wonders if Evgeni’s already used to the bruises on his face, if he knows that the one on his right cheek is Skov’s fault, if the bloodshot eyes scare him.

He drinks and his minds go astray, leading Kavinsky to think of his father with that thunderous posture, and it makes every scar on his skin ache with the ghost pain of trauma. It leads him to think of his mother with her tired blue eyes and numb mind.  _ Why the fuck would she tell him, _ he wonders because Kavinsky is aware that Monika knows the man she married.

He scoffs and looks at the living room, at Evgeni. The boy gesticulates a lot while talking on the phone, he notes, and his voice is always so low. His curly dust-blond hair falls over his eyes whenever he drops his head.

It's involuntary, really, how Andrei’s voice echoes in his mind.  _ Are you a fag now, _ and his ribs ache with the memory of those kicks.  _ Are you a fag now, _ and Andrei has called his son many things, but never that because there is nothing he despises more than the idea of his only son being gay.

Maybe that bled into Kavinsky’s own mind, too, and he's gripping the bottle neck a bit too tightly, but he isn't noticing it as he asks himself  _ how _ Andrei could think so lowly of him. “Are you trying to strangle that bottle to death, Joey?” Evgeni asks as he walks in the kitchen. Kavinsky scoffs and offers him the bottle, but the other boy denies it. “Your mom called my mom.”

“Didn't know she had the number.”

“Apparently, she has, and she called asking for you, cursing me and my whole family,” to which he chuckles as he speaks. “Mom asked me if I've seen you and I said no. You've made me lie to my mom, Joey,” and Evgeni says it as if it's the most hideous crime one could commit.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Then, do you want me to call her and tell her you’re here?”

Kavinsky looks away and tries to ignore how his body reacted against his will, how he flinched as if Evgeni’s words were physical things thrown at him. “I'm not gonna do that,” Prokopenko reassures him. “But you should call her. She might be worried.”

It's annoying, really, how Evgeni thinks every family can be perfect like his, thinks that Monika is calling out of motherly concern. Kavinsky scoffs. Monika has never been good at being a mother, seeing how displeased she is of her own son. “She isn't,” it's all he says. Knowing her as he does, she probably just wants more of her pills, or to save herself the trouble of dealing with Andrei.

“How can you know that?”

And Kavinsky laughs. 

He's been dreaming pills for his mother ever since he was nine. There's nothing on a Earth that can keep Monika Kavinsky entertained; she has already tried all of it, and is still completely in love with her white lines. He's known her for the entirety of his fifteen years, and Kavinsky  _ knows _ she doesn't care, and it's not by lack of effort from his side. “Because I know the shitty mother I have,” he growls. “Not everything can be fucking flowers and family bonding, Genko,” he says bitterly, and Kavinsky wishes he had a bottle of something stronger. “My family isn't yours, so stay the fuck away from my business with them.”

Evgeni nods, shifting the his weight from one leg to another. “Okay, then, Joey. But call her because I'm not lying for you again,” he says and goes back to the living room.

Kavinsky is left alone in the kitchen with only his bottle of beer for company. There's an urge to get out, to get high. It's a familiar urge, already. It's the only way he knows of how to deal with things that affect him. Get out, get high. It's simple and easy and effective, and the walls of this kitchen seem to wrap around him until breathing becomes hard.

He chugs whatever is left of his beer, tossing it in the trash after he's done, and rushes to his car. “Where are you going?” Evgeni asks as he crosses the living room.

“Out.”

“Do I leave the front door open?”

“No,” and he's gone.

 

* * *

 

His pills are the best of friends he could ask for. Those small, glittery capsules are reliable. They do what they’re meant to, what they say they’ll do. There are no surprises when it comes to them, only the pleasurable high, the comforting numbness and the slow pass of the seconds.

Better yet, the pills do what he wants them to do. Like some  _ Alice in Wonderland  _ bullshit, they can make him bigger than his skin or smaller than his eyeballs. They can make time go faster or slower. The world spins if he so wishes.

It feels good, to be high, to be in control.

To be free.

It feels good and Kavinsky dwells on it as he lies on his back, on the hood of the Mitsubishi, his another best friend. What a fucking amazing squad he has.

And he laughs and laughs and laughs.

It’s still too early to be that far gone, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have school and he’s in the middle of some woods because that’s the kind of place Henrietta, Virginia, is. The trees grow and shrink, they dance around his car and his body, but Kavinsky is not sure if they still are two separate things. Everything is funny, for some reason, and he laughs.

Like that, Andrei can’t reach him and Monika is just a concept his mind came up with, just like his pills. Like that, Henrietta and Millburn are the same place and they blend together. Like that, his bruises don’t hurt and he forgets Skov called him ‘fire hazard’ two days ago.

He feels his phone buzzing against his tight from where it is in his pocket, and it feels distant. His lower body is meters away from his head, Kavinsky is sure of it, as if he was one of those slinky dogs and the spring between his waist and his chest is stretching and stretching.

The buzz of the phone is distant and he laughs again.

God, it feels good.

He grabs the bottle of whiskey and ignores it when it spills on his white shirt. He laughs some more and his phone vibrating against his thigh is like an anchor, tying him to the woods, to the earth.

Kavinsky doesn’t want any ties, so he drops his phone on the ground, where it lands just beside the Mitsubishi’s tire.

He floats astray until his body is dragged down by unconsciousness.

 

He's high until everything blackens out and Kavinsky finds himself on a shore.

His eyes slowly adjust to the brightness, and the sudden awareness is crushing him under it. He screams just because he can, because there's no one there to hear it.  _ What the fuck is going on, _ he wonders as he looks at the grey pebbles mixed in sand and the even greyer sea. The waves wash over his feet and everything smells of salt. The air is thicker and there's a white light hanging on the sky; it must be the sun, though it looks like a gigantic fluorescent lamp.

Kavinsky has never been to anywhere other than the woods when he dreams like this. He's never felt so  _ aware _ of it before, as if all those previous times, there has been a thin white fabric veiling his eyes, and now it's gone.

It feels like being awake.

He reaches out and touches the pebbles on the ground. He can feel every bump on their cold surface. He can also feel something pulsing underneath his fingertips, as if it's coming alive.  _ Where am I, _ he wonders because this is something new, something alien. The ground pulses beneath his feet and Kavinsky grins. The waves crash against the rocky cliff far to his left. Everything smells of salted water and he feels powerful. It’s intoxicating and he takes in every little drop of it. 

Without any whispering tree driving him insane, Kavinsky thinks of those pink pills he dreams for his mother.

The water washes over his feet, cold and covering his shoes with sand, and it leaves five pink pills by his feet. Kavinsky grins and takes the five capsules to examine them. It has never been this easy before, this effortless _. _ It usually demands more than just  _ thinking _ , but he’s never been to that shore before, so it must mean something.

He thinks of his glittery pills, of the high they give him, and the sea washes over his feet again, leaving the silver capsules on the sand.  _ Oh my fucking god,  _ Kavinsky rejoices as he picks them up and it’s amazing. It’s  _ easy _ and it’s never been easy before because dreaming is usually a struggle between him and the dream, an argument he can't always win. Dreaming often requires speed because the woods will try to stop him as soon as they notice him. Dreaming things into life demands picturing what he wants, grabbing it when it shows up and running away, hiding until he finally wakes up.

Dreaming doesn't always work, dreaming like this doesn't always happen. Sometimes, it's just a normal dream, though it's often a nightmare. Sometimes, he doesn't dream of anything at all, and those are the best days.

Dreaming has always been a complicated chance game, and winning isn't always good.

Dreaming has never been a good thing until now. The water gave him what he asked for, and all it took was one thought. No complaints, no hisses in a language he can't grasp its meaning. Kavinsky doesn't feel watched by the shadows around him. He feels like striding on a stage, spotlight following him around, and it's awesome.

The ground pulses beneath his feet in the same rhythm of his own blood.

“What else can you give me?” he muses and the sea growls lowly. “Give me a phone,” he dares.

It takes a few seconds, but the water gives it to him, too, a brand new iPhone 5 like the one he owned before his father smashed it against the nearest wall. It feels so distant, now. He’s out of reach and it’s amazing.

Kavinsky unlocks the screen and everything is the same as his old phone. The home screen wallpaper still is a picture of Sasha Grey in lingerie. All of his files and contacts and everything else is exactly as before. 

God, what’s the limit? What else can he dream?

“Give me a gun. Make it golden,” and there’s no witness to see the wide, pretentious smile that’s forming on his lips, baring out his white teeth.

The sea obliges again and Kavinsky feels high. The golden 9mm is lying beside his feet. It’s a lot like the one Monika took from him a few days ago. He fires against a rock and it ricochets towards him, but the sands move before he can command them and he’s saved.

He laughs, loud and glorious, and he feels high on power. Pills, a phone, a gun, and all it took him was a mere  _ thought.  _ What is there in his way? Kavinsky is sure nothing would even dare stand between him and whatever shit he might want. “Fuck,” he says, smile plastered on his face. 

He can dream anything.

Kavinsky sits down on the sand, pistol in hand, and looks at the grey sea.  _ This is my kingdom, _ he thinks, and the water growls lowly. It echoes,  _ царство ти (tsarstvo ti), _ and finally it’s a language he can understand.  _ Your kingdom. _

The high he was feeling before falling asleep is nothing compared to this new one. It's dizzying, a peace of mind that tells him he's  _ powerful, _ and God knows that's something Joseph Kavinsky rarely feels.

For the first time, dreaming doesn't sound like a bad thing.

When he found out he could dream drugs to keep him entertained, dreaming was okay, but the high was not enough to counter the cons of dreaming monsters into real, living things. When he found out Monika would talk softly to him when she wanted her pink pills, dreaming was good, but still dangerous and his mother's fake tenderness wasn't enough to counter the cons of his nightmares.

But this is different. There's no effort behind anything he just did, there's nothing coming for him. This isn't just pills, but a weapon, too, and it was so easy to take it, to hold it. And it’s more than just that, than the things he’s holding at that very moment; it’s about power, about how much he can do if he tries to.  _ You're yet to bring it with you when you wake up _ , he reminds himself, but this was always the easiest part because as long as he holds it tightly and thinks about it, the thing is likely to return with him.

The waves crash peacefully against the shore. It’s quiet, too quiet, and Kavinsky hates silence, so he thinks of the deafening sound of music at substance parties, of the loud buzzing sound and the anticipation of a bass drop. He thinks of it and that beach obeys, it gives it to him.

The air starts to buzz with music, gradually becoming louder and louder until the peaceful quiet is gone and Kavinsky doesn’t feel too big for that space and oxygen flows easily into his lungs. He sighs and wonders how much longer until he wakes up.

It’s weird, how his consciousness works at the dream place. It’s there, but not quite. He knows what he was doing before falling asleep, he knows what he’s doing at that very moment, but it’s not corporeal; his body is just a fleeting concept and it’s really fucking weird, not to feel real.

It’s somewhat similar to being high, but better, stronger. His feelings are amplified and his thoughts blend with this special kind of reality. Lies are not allowed in the dream place, and that’s what Kavinsky fears the most. Here, the fears he so hard fights to keep hidden within his lies, they’re loose and ready to catch him.

Or that’s how it always felt in the woods, with the whispering trees. Here, on the shore, it’s different. Kavinsky doubts he could lie, but the sea doesn’t seem eager to kill him, the sand doesn’t seem eager to smother him, to choke him. It’s peaceful, but something in the back of his mind, something about the pulsing underneath the ground, tells him it’s a fragile peace, that it’s hanging by a thread that’s undoing and undoing.

He doesn’t want to find out, so he tries not to think too much, focusing on the beat and the sea, instead. Kavinsky focus on them until everything starts to feel distant and muffled and not quite there, and he wakes up.

His back hurts, his limbs are sore and he feels the weight of the 9mm between his fingers and the pills inside the pocket of his pants. Kavinsky grins and there are only the trees of Henrietta to shiver upon the sight of those white teeth dripping with pride and danger. It's hard to know the difference between those two right now.

Kavinsky rolls over so his back is flat against the Mitsubishi’s hood. Up there, past the trees, the moon reflects the sunlight, he’s sure of it.  _ What time is it, _ he wonders and remembers his phone forgotten on the ground.

Monika has given up calling, apparently, because her last attempt was two hours ago. Or maybe she simply fell asleep, seeing how it’s past four in the morning.  There are few texts, telling him to come home, that he has school.  _ Call her because I'm not lying for you again, _ Evgeni’s voice haunts him and Kavinsky scoffs. 

He ignores those texts and browses through his Instagram feed, liking a few things as he scrolls past them. 

 

* * *

 

Monday goes by in a blur. 

Kavinsky only goes back to Evgeni’s place in the morning, when the boy is already at school. Thankfully, he's left the back door open. He reads a text Prokopenko sent him a few hours ago.  _ Make yourself at home, just don't break anything or set the house on fire, _ and Kavinsky laughs.

Tuesday is as remarkable as any other Tuesday.

Monika stops calling by Wednesday, which is why he calls her on Thursday. “Where are you?” she asks in a lieu of a proper greeting. Monika Kavinsky has never been one to say ‘hello’ after answering a call.

“Detroit,” he lies because she doesn’t really care. “Why are you calling? Your stash is over already?”

“Funny,” she snarls. “Come home.”

“Maybe I’ll go when he’s gone to the other side of the Hudson,” he says because Andrei always has to go back to New York, back to his business doing whatever he does. Kavinsky has never cared, and still doesn't.

There are few heartbeats of silence before Monika speaks again. “He’s leaving tomorrow.”

“Are you lying,  _ mama? _ ” he asks, making sure irony fills every corner of that word. 

“No, Joseph.”

“Why are you calling?”

“I already told you,” the irritation is clear in her voice, which is why Kavinsky keeps pushing, just to annoy her as much as she annoyed him calling for the past days. 

“It’s not because of that,” he says because he just wants to hear her say it, to hear her admitting she’s only calling her son because she wants his drugs, those little pink pills that are forgotten inside a drawer in his bedroom. “C’mon, mama, be honest with your boy.”

“What do you want me to tell you, Joseph? That I want drugs?” she laughs, hollow and haunting. “It’s not that. My stash isn’t over yet.”

“It will be soon.”

“But you’ll be back soon, so I don’t have to worry, do I, son?”

And there’s a silent threat in her words, lurking at every syllable, making itself present even though Kavinsky doesn’t know what it means. It’s unsettling. “What if I don’t go back? What will you do, come get me in Detroit?”

“Maybe, Joseph. But I believe you won’t force me to do such thing, will you?”

“I’ll go back next week.”

“You already missed too many classes,” Monika says before her son hangs up on her. It doesn’t matter. It’s only been a week. It could’ve been a month and it wouldn’t matter still.

Kavinsky clenches his jaw and looks out of his window.

 

It’s Friday night when he’s sitting with his backs against the trunk of that tree Evgeni has in his backyard, when Prokopenko shows up, leaning against the doorframe and looking at him, arms crossed in front of his chest. “What are you doing, Joey?” he asks, almost shouting due the distance between them.

“Watching you watching me, Genko,” he answers as he trails his eyes from Evgeni’s face to the sky above.

It’s been a peaceful week. Prokopenko did drop asking, and their conversations resumed to be about videogames and other simple things. Their nights are usually spent watching movies or playing games, and it's been enough to blossom a small friendship between them. 

Within a week, they became more than the acquaintances they used to be for years.

“Ain’t that boring?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says and Evgeni shrugs as he crosses the backyard to sit down beside Kavinsky and his body is warm. He smells of lavender softener and cologne. “I’m leaving next week,” he announces without glancing at the boy beside him. 

It's a decision he made a few hours ago, and it's been chewing at back of his chest; Kavinsky hates it. The truth is that Millburn, his house there, it's too lonely and empty and cold, and Kavinsky has grown used to have company at night, even if it's only been a week.

He's grown used to watching movies and talking idly, to mock Evgeni playing  _ Call of Duty _ when he himself is awful at it, too. It’s normal to fall asleep with the low sound of music coming from the bedroom upstairs. Evgeni’s presence is  _ normal _ and it’s only been a week and Kavinsky feels pathetic.

“Okay,” Prokopenko replies with his usual small voice and they sit in silence for a while. It’s weird for him, to be that used with someone’s presence like that. He’s used to Monika’s because he’s lived with her since he was born, he’s used to his grandparents and cousins because their existence is something present in his mind since always, he’s used to the people at his school because he sees them everyday.

But this is different because he doesn't feel a need to fill this silence, and it's like a simple kind of companionship. It's new and Kavinsky wants it over because he doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“Hey, Joey,” Evgeni calls. “Why did you come to Henrietta?”

“You really suck at letting go, don’t you?” he asks, an annoyed smile playing on his lips, parting them just enough to give a glimpse of his teeth. He shakes his head and wonders whether or not he should tell Prokopenko. He has always seen telling secrets and explaining things as pointless, as an unworthy effort. “Old man’s home,” he answers, deciding that Evgeni can know that much.

Saying it out loud stings his bruises, even though they’re already fading, blending more and more with his skin tone. His eyes aren’t bloodied anymore and his vision isn’t as blurry as it was. Kavinsky clenches his jaw. “Was it him who gave you the bruises?” and his voice is soft as if Kavinsky was a scared animal that would flee. It’s annoying.

“This one,” he points at his cheek, “was Skovron, that friend of yours,” he says and smiles because he wants to see Evgeni flinch. He doesn’t, only lowers his eyes in some sort of shame. 

“Sorry about that,” he says. “It’s kind of my fault for disappearing. He was just worried.”

“And I bet fucking punching me made wonders for his worry,” Kavinsky mocks and dares to glance at the boy beside him. Evgeni is watching him intently, brown eyes taking in every inch of his face, and it’s annoying. It’s so fucking annoying how Evgeni looks at him as if there’s anything worth looking at. “What are you staring at me for, Genko?” 

He shrugs. “I like staring at pretty things.”

And something inside Kavinsky churns. Anger and shame blend into each other inside his core and he wants to punch something. He isn’t  _ pretty _ . He may be a  _ thing _ , but not a pretty one, and being called that by Evgeni, by another  _ boy _ twists his stomach in disgust. His bruises burn and Andrei whispers into his mind,  _ are you a fucking fag, Joseph? _

That word, those three letters, they echo and scream. They seem to be tattooed on the back of eyelids and it’s all he sees when he blinks. They echo and his bruises burn with the fresh pain of Andrei’s kicks. “Faggot,” he mutters through gritted teeth  because it's the one word blaring in his mind.

Evgeni laughs. “You’ll need a bit more than slurs, Joey, if you want to offend me with my sexuality,” he says. “Because, you know, it gets old,” and there’s a smile playing on his lips, daring and brave, and Kavinsky wonders, still caught in his anger, what the fuck is Evgeni Prokopenko. “Get creative,” he suggests as he gets up and pats Kavinsky’s shoulder before going back inside.

Only then Kavinsky realises his fists are clenched.

He flexes his fingers just to make sure they still work. When he’s sure of it, he punches the grass beneath him just enough to sting his knuckles, smudge them with dirt and blades of grass, just enough to make him feel real, to make it easier to breathe again. He inhales and exhales. Air fills his lungs and leaves them slowly in paused breaths. 

_ Get creative, _ and it sounded like a challenge Kavinsky isn’t truly eager to take on. There's no point on it. He doesn't want to offend Evgeni, not really, because he's getting attached to that friendship, and it's terrifying.

Kavinsky groans and walks inside, his knuckles lightly throbbing from the punch, but it’s grounding, somehow, and he can breathe again.

 

* * *

Being back in Jersey feels awful.

From the moment he left Henrietta, something simply shifted and he knew things were different, somehow. There’s something in Henrietta that is friendly to dreams and dreamers, and Jersey lacks that whisper of magic. He notices it, and dreaming doesn’t sound as good as it used to.

When he pulls up in his house driveway, Monika appears on the front porch. It’s not St. Mark’s Eve, which means her hair is back at being a messy crown of black locks, tied up in some attempt of updo. The bags under her eyes are dark and heavy and the tip of her nose is reddish. 

As always, Monika Kavinsky is a mess.

“Where were you?”

“Detroit,” he continues with his lie.

“You don’t have a place to stay there.”

“Don’t I?” he asks, brow arched, as he walks inside the house.

 

And the days pass. They blend into weeks, that blend into months. He still sees Evgeni at church every other Sunday, when Monika forces him to go, and they pretend to be together, which is weird. But Kavinsky grows used to interlocked fingers, and the annoyance on his mother’s face is enough to fuel him.

Some Saturdays, they hang out together. Skovron tags along every now and then, despite always being clear about not liking Kavinsky. After some time, Skov starts to greet him in the school hallways, and Physics and Literature become bearable with someone to talk to.

If Skovron changes his mind about the ‘fire hazard’ thing, he doesn't say anything.

They continue with their scam, and Andrei’s voice grows louder inside Kavinsky mind, calling him a fag over and over again. With the passage of time, the courage he felt back in April, when Evgeni first suggested the fake dating thing, starts to wear out. It fades every time he remembers Andrei’s words and his kicks while he’s near Evgeni. 

If he doesn't quit, it's only because of pride.

Like this, May goes by unremarkably, days blurring together. It's the same cycle of school, killing time, dealing pills and trying not to dream up nightmares, since he's been dreaming at the woods ever since he returned. There are weekends in which he hangs out with Evgeni and Skov; some other days he gets wasted on substance parties just to try to find some distraction.

Luckily, Andrei doesn't show up through the entire month, and Kavinsky only has Monika for company, and she's a horrible company. She doesn't really talk to him, and spends most of her days locked in her bedroom, high and watching movies on the  TV . 

New Jersey is empty and lonely, and Kavinsky misses spending his nights watching movies with Evgeni, or just having a company. Above it, New Jersey is boring, and a bored Joseph Kavinsky is prone to look for trouble, and to manufacture it, if he fails to find it.

He grabs his phone and dials.

“How much do you think that Aglionby thing will like my pills?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so terribly sorry this is so late. college got me busy and i didn't have time to edit the chapter. the next one is the last one before 'rusty prince' ends and 'throneless king' begin. i'll try to finish it asap!! as always, i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/floresetcorvi) and on [tumblr](http://floresetcorvi.co.vu/). thank you for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "if i come by your door  
>  with nothing but my hands  
>  and a choice to give you,  
>  tell me,  
>  will you let me in?"
> 
> \- l.k., from 'on wooden doors and brick walls'

Track team, Evgeni thinks, has been the one choice he made right at Aglionby. Running makes him feel good, the feeling that takes over his legs, the pull of his tendons, how it feels like flying when he's running so fast that his feet don't seem to touch the ground—it all makes him content.

He runs, then. Today's practice is focused on speed, which is why the whole team is running to the middle of the court, then back, then again. “You're falling behind, Barrett,” Coach Hess shouts.

Evgeni doesn't bother looking over his shoulder. He keeps his eyes ahead and his legs moving until Coach calls them back. “All of you, Summer break is close to start and I get it, it's very nice, you boys want to go out and do whatever teenagers are doing in their free time. But keep in mind, regionals start by end of August,” he hands them a piece of paper. “This your training routine for Summer break. It's important that _all_ of you follow it, did you hear me, McConnell?” coach asks because last year, Don McConnell ignored practice and they were eliminated. Child had been pretty pissed.

“Yes, coach,” Don answers, lowering his head.

“Good,” Coach Hess claps his hands. “Don't forget last training next Thursday,” he calls as the boys start to head to the dressing room.

Evgeni has never felt comfortable showering in front of a dozen of teenagers, who are often too busy talking about sex or girls or their dicks. Very uninteresting and his home isn't far from Aglionby, so he simply grabs his stuff, says his goodbyes, shoves his bag inside the Golf’s trunk and drives back.

He just hasn't expected, however, to find Joseph Kavinsky sitting on his doorstep. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Skov and I are borrowing your place,” he says.

“You spent a week here and you're already announcing instead of asking?” he chuckles and leans on the handrails. “Cocky much, Joey?”

Kavinsky shrugs and gets up. “I can phrase it as a question if you want,” and Evgeni laughs earnestly.

“What are you borrowing the place for?”

“Party tomorrow. Millburn gets old quickly and I thought maybe your rich friends would like something new,” and he flashes a package of those glittery pills he hands out at substance parties.

If Evgeni knows the people he goes to school with, he knows they will, indeed, like those pills. All of them, himself included, are preppy teens who will do anything to feel like they're breaking the rules. It's just hard to break the rules when they bend for you according to your needs, but they still try as if they could go to jail for drug possession.

“So you came all the way to Henrietta to deal drugs to Aglionby students?”

“Basically,” he shrugs, “yeah, that's it. Will you be coming?”

“Maybe, Joey,” and he gets inside the house.

 

* * *

 

Aglionby Academy is a microcosm of its own, alien to the rest of Henrietta.

The wealth that furnishes its hallways, that dresses its students, that drips from its faucets and showers and water fountains, that glistens off hoods of cars in the parking lot—it's all foreign to the rest of Henrietta. The building itself, those enormous iron gates, it's all a message: _stay away, you're not welcomed here._

Aglionby Academy students are almost a being of its own, or so they think. They hold themselves up, chin tilted upwards, eyes barely meeting anything unless they deem it worthy of their attention, which often means other students. They like to think themselves untouchable, marble statues of the _Musée du Louvre,_ made for being admired and looked at because they're inside an important building.

Evgeni Prokopenko does fit in among those people. He has the money and the arrogance, so it's very easy to blend together into a mass of wealthy egocentricity. However, Evgeni has never been one to willingly go to parties; not his thing. This only changed with Joseph Kavinsky. Evgeni still doesn't like parties that much, but there's something about the boy, about his lopsided grin, his loud laughter, the pride that drips from his perfect teeth, that often makes Prokopenko change his mind and go to parties he wouldn't otherwise.

Joseph Kavinsky _changes_ when he's at a party. His postures straightens and his short height doesn't do anything to diminish his presence. When he arrives in a party, Kavinsky will make sure he's seen, that people know his name. Evgeni has noticed it after a few times.

There's a shift to his posture and he walks as if the stars would lay themselves beneath his feet if so he asked them to.

It's very dangerous to Evgeni’s attempt at smothering his crush.

Joseph Kavinsky is the reason he decides to go to a party on a Friday night, which is why he's been sitting on Skov’s bed for the past hour, watching the boy trying to decide what to wear. “Skov, c’mon, you only brought three options,” he whines.

“I know, but I'm not sure of _which one,_ ” and Skov manages to make it sound like the greatest tragedy of the 21st century. He lifts the bordeaux satin jacket, “Do you think this is too much?”

“You brought three Gucci suit jackets; any of them will be too much. It's just a party, for Christ's sake,” Evgeni says and flops backwards on the bed.

“Now, there's where you're wrong, dear Proko,” Skov counters, eyes focused on the three suit jackets in front of him. He lifts the moss green with white embroidery one. “Parties are meant for you to be seen. You gotta look good to, you know, assert dominance.”

Evgeni laughs and laughs until the corner of his eyes burn, “And you're doing that with flowers-embroidered satin jackets?”

“Exactly. Now, make yourself useful and _help me_ , I'm your best friend.”

“Okay,” he sits back up and looks at the jackets he's looked at countless times since Skov asked him to help. “The bordeaux one,” he says because it is the one he liked better. Skov seems to consider, still looking at the green and royal blue one. “It's just one party. You'll have chances to wear the other two,” Evgeni assures. “Also, how are you wearing a jacket? It's almost July.”

“Pretty hurts,” he shrugs dramatically and throws the jacket on. “Now, let's see if your boyfriend is ready.”

Evgeni’s chest tightens and he curses himself. Why is having a crush so silly and annoying? “He's not my boyfriend.”

“Fake boyfriend, whatever. I know you're just making him think I don't know because you want to hold hands, which is gross. I need an award of best best friend.”

“Do you, now?”

“Yeah, I'm being forced to be _civil_ with him, which is awful because _he_ is awful.”

“He's not,” he counters and Skov looks at him with disbelief. “He isn't,” he insists. “You hang out with us sometimes. He's nice company. C'mon, was it so bad to spend six hours in a car with him?”

“Okay, no. But it's because we barely talked.”

“Sure, Skov.”

“He's dangerous,” he says and Evgeni wants to laugh. Joey never presented himself as a threat, not to him at least. “Yeah, he's good company, maybe, but he's…” Skov trails off, waving his hands as if they could make the point, “not safe.”

“He's a person, not a fairground attraction. He can't be unsafe.”

“Well, then Joseph Kavinsky is the first fairground-attraction person to exist.”

Evgeni chuckles. “He's not dangerous. Not to me.”

“You can't know that, Proko. Not yet,” and Skov walks out of his bedroom, leaving Evgeni alone to sigh and lightly hit his forehead against the wooden wardrobe. “K!” he hears Skov shouting. “Can we go?” and Evgeni wonders when his best friend started calling Joey ‘K’.

Kavinsky, who's been sitting on the couch playing on his Nintendo 3DS, looks up at them. “All that time to choose an outfit and you still manage to look like shit?” he mocks. “Well done, Skovron,” then, he tosses a few packages of pills to Skov.

“You're helping him?”

“Yeah, he's my partner in crime,” Kavinsky gets up and drapes an arm over Skov’s shoulders, and it looks uncomfortable since Skov is taller by five centimeters.

And it angers Evgeni; not because of the drug dealing, but because not two minutes ago, Skov was telling him about how dangerous Joey can be, and it feels a lot like hypocrisy. It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue when he says, “How safe of you,” and he can see Skov knows very well what he's talking about because he rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, Genko,” Joey says, clearly unaware of the silent conversation he's having with his best friend. “It's just selling drugs to a few rich teenagers. He ain't going to jail for that.”

“Why do you say it as if you weren't a rich teenager yourself?”

“I could answer you, but we're running late, so, maybe later,” he shrugs and walks past them.

 

Parties really aren't Evgeni Prokopenko’s thing. He doesn't really mind the loud music, or the clouds of smoke, or the alcohol; the problem are the people.

There's too many of them, and Evgeni feels like he's drowning. Unlike Kavinsky and Skov, Evgeni doesn't like to be seen, to be looked at, and he always feels so awkward when girls make eye contact with him. _Wrong dude,_ he thinks and wishes to blend in with the wall and disappear.

It's bearable when he's not alone because, then, he can pretend everyone is looking at Joey or at Skov, which is often true. Also, because talking distracts him; staring at Kavinsky distracts him. But both boys are gone, dealing pills and probably getting wasted, which leaves Evgeni alone, a cup in hand and a phone in another.

When he's alone, parties are boring.

It's like watching a movie; bodies trying to move to the beat, their private conversations are in a language foreign to him, muffled sounds and unknown words tying themselves together. The lights flashing from the room where the dance floor is washes the hallway purple and blue and pink and green. He takes a sip from his cup; maybe it's vodka, he's not sure. It burns his throat and warms him up inside, so Evgeni thinks it's enough.

He sees a few packages of glittery pills passing from hand to hand, going into mouths. _He's dangerous,_ and he drinks some more because what else is there to do at a party? Joseph Kavinsky isn't _dangerous,_ or so Evgeni likes to think. As a matter of fact, he likes to think that he's immune to Kavinsky's danger. He _knows_ Joey isn't an sunflower of soft petals; he _knows_ Joey is the beautiful rose with far too many thorns, but it's so beautiful that you only notice the thorns when they're buried deep into your flesh. He knows that, but he likes to think of himself above it.

Evgeni Prokopenko’s arrogance has never been like his fellow Aglionby students’. His arrogance has nothing to do with his money, with the material things he can own. He doesn't think of himself above other people because of his money. No, Evgeni’s arrogance comes from always being special; it grew into his head and, now, it makes him think he can be an exception to anything; it's why he doesn't properly study, because he hangs on the belief that he can be the only one to do well despite not studying.

Evgeni is arrogant, and he likes to think of himself as an exception to Kavinsky’s thorns. _He's dangerous,_ and he takes a sip, thinking, _not for me, he isn't._ He sees the package of pills going from hand to hand again, and his cup is almost empty. _To Hell with it._ He doesn't know where either Joey or Skov are, and neither are answering their phones, so he walks up to the girl. “Hey, where did you get this?”

“With the guy in the kitchen.”

And Evgeni doesn't really know where the kitchen is, but the girl vaguely pointed to her left, so he goes towards there, elbowing his way through the sea of bodies. When he does manage to find the kitchen, he sees Kavinsky slouching on a chair, his cup on the counter beside him. “Hey, Genko,” he greets. “How's the party going for you?”

“Boring,” he says and takes his wallet from his pocket. “How much for the pills?”

Kavinsky smiles, sly and amused. “For you, a hundred,” he says and takes a package from his hoodie pocket. “I'm feeling charitable.”

“Are you, now?” Evgeni hands him the bills and takes the pills.

There's a girl looking at Kavinsky, her index fingernail pressed between her white teeth. Her eyes are brown, Evgeni noticed, and so is her hair. She's looking a lot. He doesn't really blame her; he looks a lot, too, but it makes his skin itch because Kavinsky is looking back. _Stupid teenage crushes,_ he curses, and leaves.

The cup in his hand is heavy, even though is mostly empty. The package of pills feels like a mistake, weighing down in his pocket. He feels like a beacon of light, attracting everyone's eyes. Evgeni knows no one is actively looking at him, but it feels like it, and he hates it. He's far from the kitchen, from Joey, from that girl, but he needs more distance because he's frustrated, which is ridiculous, he tells himself.

The pills seem to pulse.

He doesn't think of track team, of regionals, and that he needs to be clean. It's far away but he doesn't know for how long Kavinsky’s pill will stay in his system. He's not thinking about it. _I bought them,_ he reminds himself. _Oh, whatever,_ and Evgeni places a glittery capsule on his tongue, chasing it with whatever's left in his cup.

It doesn't take long until it hits, making him hyper aware of his body, of every hair glued to his scalp. It's weird, to get high. He no longer feels the pressure at the side of his head; instead, he feels like floating. It's different from weed; weed makes him slow with a heavy head and feeling funny inside. This pill, it's awareness at the same time that it is numbness. It's daydreaming, or sleepwalking, Evgeni can't be sure.

It's that knife’s edge between one and another, it's like fading in and out of consciousness and it feels great because he can be a king, a god, a hero, for as long as the high lasts. It's encapsulated youth, and Kavinsky must be a genius if he managed to create something like this.

The ghostly light of an empty parking lot, the eerie sight of a moonlit marble statue, empty roads—it all occurs to him in flashes and feelings he can't quite explain, can't put into words.

Evgeni hasn't tried anything other than alcohol and weed in his few years of life, but he knows nothing will ever be able to give him this high, perfect and new. His mind is the clearer than it has ever been, light and fleeting and melting through his fingers. It doesn't make sense; nothing does, and Evgeni thinks Skov may be approaching, but it can be anyone else, too.

“Proko,” the silhouette asks. It sure looks like Skov, but it can also be a walking hanger wearing the bordeaux jacket. It's hard to know. Well, the hanger may have hands because Evgeni is sure there are hands squeezing his shoulders. “Oi, Proko,” Skov-hanger calls, shaking him lightly. “Are you high?”

And Prokopenko laughs because of course he's high, and because it's funny to look at Skov and think he's a floating hanger with an expensive jacket, and because everything is just laughable. “What are you high on?” and he sounds concerned.

“Pills,” Evgeni manages and laughs again. Skov squints his eyes. “C’mon, bro, don't be a buzzkiller,” and, God, laughters slip from his tongue as easily as pearls on a marble surface.

“Where did you get pills? Did K sell them to you?”

“Course,” his vowels are slurred together, his mind is light as a feather. Evgeni isn't sure if he has a brain, and the thought makes him laugh again.

“I'm getting you home.”

“No,” and his arms reach out to push Skov, but it's useless, and they fumble over the boy’s shoulder. “You can't car.”

“What?” Skov asks, already trying to prop Evgeni against his side. “Are you trying to say I can't drive?”

“Yes!” he shouts as a scientist would have shouted ‘eureka’ centuries ago. He laughs. “Drive. Yes. You can't.”

“We'll walk, then, whatever.”

“The party,” he says. “I don't wanna leave.”

“It's almost ending, anyway.”

“Where's Joey?”

And Skov groans. Evgeni feels his legs betraying him and all his body falling over his friend. He laughs again, and there's a faint pain coming from somewhere beneath his knee. “Is that what you wanna know?” he scoffs. “I don't know where he is, Genko. Probably in a bedroom with a random girl.”

“I'm being cheated on!” he whines and laughs, and his shin may be throbbing but it's so distant.

“He's your _fake_ boyfriend. You can't be cheated on,” Skov pushes Evgeni back on his feet and drags him to a couch. He lands with a soft _thump_ and he laughs again.

“Are we home?”

“Yeah, Genko. We live with a rando from Aglionby,” his voice is filled with sarcasm, but Prokopenko is too high to notice.

“I go there.”

“Sadly,” Skov says and sits beside him, letting his head fall backwards. Evgeni watches his best friend, his brown, straight hair falling over his pierced ears. He tries to count how many earrings Skov wears, but gives up around the sixth. Then, he looks at the small, almost invisible scar on his temple he got after falling from a tree he tried to climb.

He laughs, but feels guilty because it's not funny that Skov fell from a tree.

“Did you make a lot of money?”

“A fair amount, yeah.”

Evgeni hums and rests his head on his friend’s shoulder. He smells of beer and cologne. “Hey, Skov,” he calls. “Why do we…” he waves his hands. Prokopenko feels like he doesn't know any words. “Crushes. Why?”

“Neurochemical con job,” he answers with a shrug. “Part of the teenage experience, maybe. Luck, or lack of it,” he shrugs again. “I don't know. I don't think about it.”

“Do you have a crush, Skov?” he asks.

Evgeni Prokopenko always has a crush on someone. Sometimes, it's a kid from school; it can be the market cashier, or a stranger he drives past, or anyone whose gaze he meets. It's not hard for him to have crushes, and even though he rarely acts on them, Evgeni is used to daydream about random boys he meets and thinks attractive. It seems weird, to him, that Skov can go through life without a crush.

“Nah,” he answers. “I don't know. I guess I just don't mind it,” and that's the end of their conversation, so they sit in silence. His neck is starting to get sore; being tall sucks sometimes. “How can you have a crush on him?”

“He's good looking,” Evgeni answers. “And he's fun to be around, so why not?”

“Aren't crushes supposed to be, like, a big deal?” Skov muses. “You sound like you have them just because you're bored.”

“It's a fun pastime,” and both boys laugh.

It is, indeed, a fun pastime. Evgeni can easily get rid off boredom just by creating silly crushes, thinking about what a date is like with the guy he saw once when he stopped to get gas at Baltimore, or what sex is like with that boy from New York he saw across the hotel hall. It's simple and easy, to let his mind wander like that, making up scenarios.

It's simple and easy because they're fleeting. He won't see those boys ever again, so it doesn't matter if he pretends to be flirting, or if he daydreams about them. With Joey, though, the simple line of having crushes is starting to tangle up with itself. Joey isn't someone he'll never see again, he's not a distant stranger.

Joey is pretty real, and Joey talks to him and laughs with him and they play video games together, and having a crush can get hard, and it annoys Evgeni. It's annoying because it's supposed to be like watching a tiger in the wilderness; distant and nothing but _watching_ , but he's suddenly looking forward to when he's gonna see the tiger again and Evgeni doesn't know why.

It's hard to pretend to flirt with the tiger because when those blue eyes meets his, Prokopenko feels lost for that briefest of moments. It's hard because the tiger watches back, and he's left wondering what that must mean because the tiger has already called him a fag, and he's used to it, he is, but it made his stomach churn as if it was the first time.

Maybe it's not the word, it's the tiger because tigers aren't supposed to say that kind of thing.

He doesn't know why he's thinking of tigers, and he doesn't know what time it is, and the high is starting to wear out, so the pain on his shin is starting to get more noticeable. Looking through the tall window, Evgeni sees that the sky isn't quite as dark as it was. “Let's go home,” he says and pats Skov’s hair.

 

* * *

 

He dreams of tigers and wandering hands and blue eyes. He dreams of soft skin under calloused, harsh hands. He dreams of alcohol and strawberry-scented boys and their thunderous laugh. He dreams of a king crowned by thorns and glittery pills, and he doesn't know what it means.

 

* * *

 

Waking up on Saturday afternoon feels like a mistake because he's hungover and his shin throbs. Evgeni can't remember why. He can't remember much of last night, actually. He sits up and looks at the white wall of his bedroom. It's too empty, and he thinks he should buy some stuff to decorate it.

Prokopenko grabs his phone and texts his mother, telling her he won't go back this weekend. He really isn't in the right condition to drive six hours right now, and he won't go back just to return to Henrietta after a few hours. There are classes on Monday. “Shit,” he breathes out and runs a hand over his eyes. Then, he sees two texts from Joey.

_best boyfriend in town [04:49 2013/06/15]: where r u genko_

_best boyfriend in town [04:53 2013/06/15]: did u leave already_

He doesn't know when he left, if Kavinsky texted him before or after it. He sighs and gets out of bed, dragging his feet across the hallway to the bathroom. God, his shin is sore, but there are no visible bruises, so maybe it'll heal within the week.

When Evgeni gets downstairs, Joey is sitting on the counter, a glass of chocolate milk in hands. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he mocks, his lazy smile there as always. There are bags under his eyes, and Prokopenko wonders if the boy slept at all.

“Morning, Joey,” he greets and walks over to the fridge and grabs the orange juice carton; it's almost empty. He needs to do groceries, he thinks as he pours it in a glass. “How was the drug dealing?”

“Just perfect,” Kavinsky answers behind his glass. “Even you bought the pills. Thought you didn't like drugs or something.”

“Fuck,” he curses because now he remembers the regionals. “How long do they stay in our system?”

“I don't know. Why the fuck would I know that?”

Evgeni sighs. Hopefully, he'll be clean by the time drug tests come around. “Where do you even get them?”

And Kavinsky's smile widens the way it always widens when he's proud of something. This is smile is often accompanied by an inflated chest and cocky expression. “In my dreams,” he answers.

“Yeah, sure. Is that some fake name of the guy you sell it for?”

Kavinsky laughs. “You think they're from someone else?” he laughs again, it's quick and dry. “You taking me for a cheap dealer, Genko? Like those ones you find in dark alleys or something? Oh, please,” and his voice is strangely warm and it's unsettling. His voice is slow and warm, and everything in it screams a threat. “The pills, they're mine. I make them. I'm no cheap dealer, baby,” he says with a mocking tone and hops off the counter.

Evgeni is left feeling hollow, for some reason, and he takes a gulp from his glass just to have something to do, to focus on. _In my dreams,_ and it sounds like an impossibility. It sounds like a riddle, and Prokopenko wants the answer for it, wants to solve it, so he stops on the door frame. “Are you going back to Jersey?” he asks when Kavinsky is almost reaching the hallway.

Joey looks down at his hands before tilting his head to meet Evgeni’s eyes. “Do you need me to?”

He shrugs. “You can stay here, if you want,” and he means it. It's not like he enjoys living alone. “Is your dad home again?”

“None of your business.”

“Stop that,” he snaps. It's frustrating, the way Joey brushes him off, saying that is none of his business. After a month, he has heard that very sentence many times. Every time he asks something slightly personal, Joey says ‘none of your business’. Maybe it isn't, but Evgeni still wants to know, call it arrogance or empathy. It's not his crush talking, or anything like that; it's sheer human decency, he believes so. “I mean, you don't have to tell me anything, but…” he trails off, scratching the nape of his neck. “You can, if you want to.”

Kavinsky doesn't say anything and they stand like that, on opposite sides of the living room. The seconds pass and Evgeni considers leaving to his bedroom, but Joey finally speaks up, and his voice is so, so low, Prokopenko wonders if he's not imagining it. “He's coming next week.”

“Was he the reason behind your bruises?”

“I thought I've already told you that.”

“You didn't. Not with all the words.”

“And do you need that? Can't you get a subliminal message, man?” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Not every family can be perfect like yours,” Kavinsky answers and the sight of that mocking smile leaves a bitter taste on Evgeni’s tongue.

“You can stay here,” he says. “I mean, if you want to. You don't have to, if you got somewhere else to stay. But…” he trails off. He feels like every little word he's learned throughout sixteen years of life is slipping through his fingers and he can't come up with coherent sentences. “If you want to, stay.”

And there's this new expression on Kavinsky's face, filling his blue eyes, furrowing his dark brows, lifting his smooth cheeks. For once, his lips aren't pursed into a line, or opened in a smile, but they're slightly agape. It's an overall new sight and Evgeni feels his heart squeeze in his chest, and flowers fill his lungs for one brief moment.

Everything seems strangely fragile as if the gentlest of breaths could shatter everything and Joey would go back to say it's none of his business. This brittle atmosphere around them is so hard to maintain, and Evgeni wishes Kavinsky would say anything, but he doesn't and they hold eye contact as Atlas holds the sky, crushing under it, but enduring it just the same.

They hear a door creaking open and Skov comes out of his bedroom, his hair a mess over his head. He sees them and chuckles. “What kind of kinky shit is this?” he asks and every weight is lifted from Evgeni’s shoulders and he can breathe again as the flowers slowly fade from his lungs. “Get a room you two,” he grumbles and walks to the kitchen, bumping fists when he walks past Evgeni. Prokopenko laughs.

Kavinsky scoffs and goes to his bedroom—is that _his_ bedroom, now?

Not three minutes later, Evgeni hears his phone chime up.

_best boyfriend in town [14:52 2013/06/15]: thanks._

Evgeni ignores Skov’s inquisitive stare as he smiles stupidly at his phone.

 

* * *

 

That afternoon, when he goes to the market, Evgeni hears about Kavinsky.

He's in the cereal aisle as two teenage boys he's never seen before talk, “Man, you missed out on yesterday,” one of them comments. “I mean, the party itself was kinda lame, but there were these two dudes and they were with some kind of new shit.”

“Nothing’s new,” his friend says.

“Oh, this was. It was like, God, I don't know. Maybe what LSD has been to the sixties?” he offers as an analogy. “I don't know, but it was _awesome_.”

“And who were those guys?” he asks as he examines some cereal boxes.

“God knows. I think they're Russians? I have no clue. But someone said he'll throw a party tomorrow.”

“Shit, but I have classes on Monday.”

“Man,” he lightly punches his friend’s biceps, playfully. “This shit is like, an eye opening experiencing. You can't miss out on it _again_ , and because of classes? Are you really that eager to Mrs. Morgan classes?” the two of them laugh and walk out of the aisle.

Evgeni has never seen those boys before, and he's sure there are no Mrs. Morgan teaching at Aglionby, which means Joey’s pills reached more social circles than expected. And a party tomorrow? Where did that come from?

Prokopenko dumps Skov’s favourite cereal into the cart and leaves the aisle, head still clouded from the supposed party and as soon as he gets home, he knocks on Kavinsky's door. “Are you throwing a party tomorrow?”

“What?” Kavinsky asks, clearly confused. He slowly sits up on his bed. “No, why?”

“Some kids at the market said you were. Also, they're calling you Russian.”

“Shit,” Kavinsky muses. “I'm not Russian, what the fuck?”

“Is that what worries you?”

“Nothing worries me, I just don't wanna be called Russian,” he shrugs. “But, you know what they say,” and he smiles. “The voice of the people is the voice of God.”

“You can't be actually considering this.”

“Why not?” he asks. “I'm not going back so early to Jersey and I got nothing better to do, anyway.”

And it's weird, how the mind of Joseph Kavinsky works. Evgeni would never consider throwing a party out of the blue like that. It's oddly dangerous the smile he displays, and Prokopenko wonders what is going on in his mind, what is there in it for him. He looks at Joey and there's a thrill to him, to his smile, to the determination in his eyes, and all of that makes his pulse quicken as if he was about to do something illicit.

Evgeni is pretty sure he doesn't care about that right now. “You're really going to, aren't you?”

“Of course I am,” he says and jumps out of bed. “Tell everyone you know about it,” he pats Evgeni’s shoulder as he exits his bedroom. “Ask Skov to do the same. I'll go try to find a place.”

“Joey—” but Kavinsky is already out. It feels like riding a rollercoaster. It's still just going up.

 

Two hours later, Evgeni hears from him again.

 _best boyfriend in town [17:27 2013/06/15]: i found a place,_ it's all the text says and Prokopenko feels the thrill of anticipation you get when the trolleys are still going upwards.

_You [17:27 2013/06/15]: and where is it?_

_best boyfriend in town [17:29 2013/06/15]: an abandoned fairground. tell skovron about it,_ and he does so. “God, what the fuck is he thinking?” Skov asks. “Are you going?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Kavinsky doesn't come back until it's three in the morning and he looks like shit. The bags under his eyes are dark as the purple stains were back in that night of April. His hair is a mess and he looks just like he hasn't eaten in a long time.  “When was the last time you ate something?”

“God knows, Genko,” he answers with that lopsided smile of his and Prokopenko is starting to see the curve that marks that one second of safety before the trolleys are sent down. _He's dangerous,_ Skov’s voice echoes and he ignores it.

“You can't live on chocolate milk, alcohol and cereals.”

“Try to stop me,” and Evgeni sighs.

Kavinsky is gone for most of the Sunday, doing God knows what to arrange this party.

It's 9PM when he's found at the fairground, floodlights washing over the dusty ground and the faded out buntings, that are flying with the breeze and the blow of cars going up in flames when molotov cocktails land loudly against their hoods or onto their seats.

It's hard to hear the roaring fire over the roaring animal that is the music.

The bass quickens his pulse and reverberates off every surface it finds to land on. For some reason, Skov is the DJ and it seems like everything is a crazy dream, the kind you never know how you ended up in such a weirdly specific scenario, except that you did and now there's nowhere to run to.

The rollercoaster is finally going to drop, and God, is he ready for it.

This feels different than the substance parties at the Pumping Station, back in Millburn; more chaotic, more alive, or simply _more._ He doesn't know how Kavinsky managed to get this place fitting for a party in such a short time.

This is something Henrietta will remember and talk about for a while.

The music blares, reverberating through his bones, and Prokopenko feels something he can't quite name. It's the thrill of doing something for the first time, but amplified and brought to life by the bass drop and the cheers and every fastened heart rate, every drop of sweat, every ounce of substance, every clash of bodies.

It's a dream come alive, the kind of dream that borders a nightmare, but it's still good, still gives you something worth remembering, still makes you wish you won't wake up just yet because there's this feeling that something even better is about to come.

Evgeni looks around and it's impossible. It's impossible Joey managed to get so many people to come, so promptly. It's impossible, but it's happening and, wow, it's unreal. “Are you gonna just stand in there the whole party, Genko?” Joey asks, can of beer in hand.

“How did you do this? How did you…” he trails off, vaguely gesturing towards everything. “What kind of miracle is that?”

Kavinsky scoffs and drowns his drink. “I wouldn't call it a miracle. That's a far too nice word,” he tosses the can on the ground.

“But this place was nothing and you made it into something within hours, how is that even possible?”

“I have my ways,” and there's something to the smugness in his smile, the nonchalance of his posture, that makes Evgeni’s heart even greedy for the boy standing in front of him. “C’mon, don't look so bummed out. We haven't even gotten to the best part,” and, God, it's so pretentious, the way his words come out of his mouth. _Fucking Hell,_ he curses.

“And what is that, Joey?” to which Kavinsky laughs, as loud as the music, shaking his whole body.

“Fireworks,” and he mimics an explosion, his mouth curling around a silent _boom_. “Imma blow some shit up, baby,” he walks back into the crowd and Evgeni can barely hear anything over the thunderous, rhythmic flow of blood pumping against his eardrums.

Prokopenko feels his lips curl in a smile, and the first firework whistles its way into the night sky, louder than the music and the burning cars and the cheers. It flies up and up until it explodes, golden sparks sprayed against the darkness.

Another one is quick to follow, and then two others. The sky is dotted with golden, silver, blue flares and grey smoke. Every sonorous _boom_ earns a cheer, red cups fly across the crowd, drenching people in whatever alcoholic beverage it contained, but no one cares because the sky is being painted with colourful explosions, sparks brighter than the stars.

Evgeni hears Kavinsky shouting, and it's almost a howl.

There's a huge smile plastered on his face, glistening of pride and sweat, the fireworks illuminating his features, his blue eyes fixed on the sky—what a beautiful, impossible boy that is.

 

* * *

 

“I'm throwing a Fourth of July,” he says Tuesday night, can of Pepsi Twist in hand. They're all sprawled on the couch, watching some anime Skov threw on their faces. He thinks it's called _Psycho Pass,_ maybe, “Not on the fairground, somewhere else,” his eyes are trained on the TV.

“That's in two weeks,” Evgeni counters.

“So? The Sunday party wasn't real until Saturday night. I have plenty of time,” he shrugs.

“Can you two lovebirds shut up and _watch_?” Skov whines, throwing a cushion at them. Kavinsky throws it back and laughs when it hits Skov’s head, messing up his hair.

“Fourth of July,” Joey says, picking up the conversation. “It's gonna be awesome. I'm making it fucking memorable,” he says and it sounds like a promise. Evgeni wonders if, now, there’s any stopping Joseph Kavinsky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well . that was rusty prince's last chapter, and only the first part of osjwot. i hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. idk when i'll be able to start posting the next part, throneless king, but hopefully it won't take a lot of time!! if you want to keep reading, subscribe to the series bc then ao3 will notify you whenever i start posting the second part. thank you for reading and for staying with me throughout these weeks!! i hope you read the entirety of osjwot. it'd mean the world to me since this story has a very special spot in my heart.  
> as always, you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/floresetcorvi) and on [tumblr](http://floresetcorvi.co.vu/) so we can talk abt kavinsky or trc or anything tbh

**Author's Note:**

> well, now that this was Clarified . i hope you enjoy this fic as much as i enjoy writing it. so far i only have the first part written, so i will be able to post rusty prince's five chapters weekly. after that, only god knows


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